When Sherlock Met the Other One
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sequel to "Emails From Uppsala" - Two years on, and Sherlock has a son, a beautiful pathologist and a family conundrum to solve. It s such a good job John Watson is around to stop some terrible decision making... Oh, and remember The Case of The Devil s Flower? Professor Moriarty does, and he can t quite get Sherlock out of his head. Brother? Sister? Who is the Other One?
1. Stockholm Syndrome

**Stockholm 1983**

The queue for the telephone kiosks was ridiculously long. Miriam Holmes adjusted her bag on her shoulder; rootling around in the bottom of several of its (many) compartments for change. Staring at the _krone_ in her hand made her none the wiser as to the possibility of it funding a phone call of reasonable length back to London, so Miriam shook her head and started on her coat pockets. She really was ridiculous, but knew she couldn't rest until she`d checked Vernet and the boys were OK. For goodness sake, woman – Miriam was notoriously tough on herself – you`ve only been absent for a tragically short _five_ hours…they will be fine!

"Little ones at home?"

A soft, quiet and oddly calming English voice cut across her thoughts and Miriam looked up to lock eyes with a man, smiling benignly at her.

"You are…" She was going to say `very perceptive`, but – "… entirely correct." came out. Rueful smile. "I seem to still be trying to grasp the Swedish exchange rate."

He smiled at her. His teeth were white and perfect and his eyes, behind round wire glasses, were the very deepest shade of brown. Almost black.

"Be kinder to yourself, Miriam. You`ve barely had time to acclimatise from the flight. I expect you haven't even checked in."

As her eyes widen, he smiles and taps his own name badge and her eyes glance down to her own.

"I was on your flight." Adds `_Lew Murtagh_`, fishing around in his pockets. He is small of stature and has a dancer-like stance and proportions. `_Light on his feet_` pops into Miriam`s head, unbidden. He is suddenly holding out a clenched fist and it takes her a few microseconds to realise it is full of – change.

"Oh, I can`t – "

"No, you absolutely CAN," replies Lew Murtagh (_Durham University Biomechanical Mathematics Department_). His voice is still quiet and soft, but brooks absolutely no option for refusal.

And she extends her palm, allowing the silver coins to cascade from his hand to hers.

Miriam Holmes had always been good with numbers. As a child, she noticed numbers on road signs, buses, gate posts, shopping lists and would use them to make her own little algorithms. A sort of attempt to make sense of a strange and confusing world. Numbers were clear, honest, straight-forward. They always did what you wanted them to do and didn't ignore you or not come and visit you, even when they had promised. Studying at the prestigious Imperial College, London and gaining a First Class Honours degree, Miriam felt she had surely found her niche. A fortuitous job within the Pure Mathematics Department meant she could lecture part time in a subject that still gave her great comfort, and still have time for her boys back at home.

And, perhaps, even write that book that everyone seemed to have inside them (just waiting to leap out onto the page – as if anything worthwhile was that easy).

That evening, a welcoming dinner, hosted by Stockholms Universitet for the delegates of the conference, was well underway by the time Miriam saw Lew Murtagh again. At a short lecture that afternoon (_on some applications of the homological theory of graded skew-commutative rings_), she found, to her embarrassment, that she was scanning the crowd of strange faces for his. How very odd that she would do that. It simply wasn't like her.

"There is a Ghost Walk from Järntorget, Old Town, starting at seven thirty." He had slid, sinuously and silently, into the chair beside her. Dark eyes, dark hair and a very well cut evening suit; very possibly by a designer she should probably have heard of.

"Are you _game_?"

Miriam Holmes looked into eyes of jet, which seemed to twinkle darkly in the candlelit Swedish hall. The chattering voices from all around them had suddenly muted into muffled murmurings and she and this virtual stranger seemed to be contained in some kind of isolated bubble. Miriam was a sensible and dramatically down to earth woman who had never so much glanced at any other man since meeting the tranquil and lovely Vernet Holmes, almost fifteen years previously. She adored her strange and beautiful boys and upsetting any applecart was probably the furthest ever thing from her mind. It simply did not compute. It was not logical.

"I am." She answered.

Hours later…

He was around ten years older than Miriam and had recently been awarded a Fellowship in Mathematics at Durham University.

"I have read your paper!" Miriam felt an excitement akin to her best friend Beverley`s at a Donny Osmond concert in 1972 (`_I love him – I will be Mrs Osmond one day!`_)

"It was inspirational – ground-breaking." She is blushing in the darkness of the Swedish night and her eyes are unable to meet his. "It makes me want to write my own ideas down and make something of them."

Lew shifted on the park bench, facing her. They had lost sight of the other ghost hunters around forty-five minutes ago. Neither of them cared. He was fidgeting and tapping a small rhythm with his fingers, like a metronome. It was strange that she didn't find it annoying in the slightest. It was high summer in Scandinavia, but the hour was late and there was a chill in the air. Miriam shivered.

"You should do that, Miriam." He spoke softly and his white teeth glinted under the street lighting. "You have a talent. I _adore_ talent – my respect for the person who achieves is _boundless_." Lew tilts his head and the haematite eyes glitter.

"Life is short," he said.

**xx00xx**

I threw a wish in the well,  
Don't ask me, I'll never tell  
I looked to you as it fell,  
And now you're in my way

I'd trade my soul for a wish,  
Pennies and dimes for a kiss  
I wasn't looking for this,  
But now you're in my way

Your stare was holdin',  
Ripped jeans, skin was showin'  
Hot night, wind was blowin'  
Where do you think you're going, baby?

As she mainlined the jaunty words of Ms Carly Rae Jepson via her ear buds, Molly Hooper couldn't help but contemplate the huge diversity between her running backing track and her running route plan. Sherlock had, in a really sweet attempt at involvement in her marathon training, devised a running route that incorporated at least one crime scene within each run. He liked to call it, `_Molly`s Marathon Murder Route Planner_` and had made an actual App for it. Thus, a slightly wary Molly Hooper (sometimes accompanied by Mary Watson, and a few others from the Bart`s running group) found herself jogging by The National Antiquities Museum (which had witnessed the sad demise of Soo Yin Lee); Borthwick Wharf (the abandoned body of Ian Monford in his own car boot); Broadwick Street to Wardour Street, via Poland and D`Arbley Street where John and Sherlock had chased a certain murderous cabbie, and the Duke of York Steps to the Mall, where Sherlock had taken Mary on a very illegal motorbike ride to find John.

There were many, many more.

Sherlock loved London, this much she knew. It was a hobby of his to have a clear and exact knowledge of it, and she was touched he felt her worthy to share it with.

Sweet.

With a side of creepy.

You took your time with the call,  
I took no time with the fall  
You gave me nothing at all,  
But still, you're in my way

I beg, and borrow and steal  
Have foresight and it's real  
I didn't know I would feel it,  
But it's in my way…

Molly was on her way home to Baker Street now, after a charming run through Shaftesbury Avenue and Gerrard Street where she jogged by The Lucky Cat Emporium and the flat where Sherlock had nearly been strangled to death by a murderous Chinese acrobat. Ah, happy memories! Turning across the junction of Northumberland Street, she almost lost the thread of Carly Rae`s demands as she all but collided with a girl who had suddenly stopped dead in front of Molly, to look at her phone.

"Oh god – "

"Oh no! I`m so sorry!"

An embarrassment of stranger-entangled limbs (some of them sweaty) and retrieval of dropped bags, phones and iPods ensued. But, no real damage was done. The girl was small, blond, curvy and around twenty five. All in all, pretty _hot_.

Her apologies were profuse.

"… my fault… not looking at all… stupid phone mapping… completely lost…do you live locally?"

Molly had, by now, got both her breath and her iPod back. She smiled at the girl.

"Where do you need to be? I might be able to help?"

And the hot, young blonde scrolled down her phone, forehead crinkling.

"I need to meet this guy. I`ve got a bit of a problem, you see. I`m sure he can help me. I think he lives near here, but I just can`t find it…"

Molly tried to cut short the ramble.

"What is this guy`s name?"

Scrolling down. "Er… it`s Sherlock – Sherlock Holmes. He lives at 221B, on Baker Street. Any ideas?"

**xx0xx**

A proffered hand and a wide, accommodating grin.

"John – John Watson…I – we`d like to hear your story, Miss Wright – "

"Theresa."

Grin widens.

"Theresa. Please sit down, Theresa."

"Well, Terri, actually…"

"Ok, please sit down, Terri…"

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper watch this exchange from the kitchen of 221B. If Sherlock is thrilled that Molly Hooper has brought him a potential case into his very lap that evening, he is not showing it. Molly is drinking a bottle of water and enjoying Sherlock`s consternation.

"Molly, what is John doing? His welcome seems … wrong?"

"Sherlock, he is flirting with her."

"Flirting?"

"Enjoying a little bit of sexually charged banter. Fun. Non-threatening. Mary won`t be upset. He can`t help it. She has outstanding breasts."

Sherlock blinks. Twice. Molly`s heart gives a little lurch and it`s all she can do not to embrace his puzzled shoulders and kiss him. But – very unprofessional.

"I see. John is held to ransom by his hormonal urges, based on a subliminal appreciation of the breasts of a stranger."

"They really are excellent Sherlock. Take time to appreciate."

He looks away from John and their new client and eventually catches on. Her eyes are twinkling wickedly as she downs the water. Sherlock notes her hair is matted and plastered to her head, cheeks are flushed and the clay adhering to her left trainer indicates she took Murder Route No. 6. (a good choice for an autumn evening) and simultaneously computes that he loves her. He loves her very much. But, he won`t do a thing right now. Unprofessional. And he is being – Sherlock Holmes.

Theresa Wright has soon been offered and afforded a cup of Darjeeling, a custard cream and a tissue. The latter is not for the tears of an emotional client, but the sneezes of a hay fever sufferer.

"Blimey, how embarrassing was that? I am sorry, Mr Holmes, but it must be your tiger lilies."

Sherlock is entirely blank. She points to the orangey black flowers on the mantelpiece, jostling for room with Billy.

"Allergies. Anyway, I just wondered if you could help me. I read about Doctor – about John`s blog on that Devil`s Flower case, and it seemed like you know your way round a mystery."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, and John Watson was 99.9% positive it wasn't for a better view.

"I _love_ a mystery," corroborates Sherlock Holmes, his eyes glittering. "So, please tell us, Theresa, why a man who doesn't call you ever again after a date should be a mystery?"

John is getting ready with an apology, but, then –

"We men are fools in so many areas of life – even a beautiful woman such as yourself is not immune to our idiocies – "

Good save, Sherlock.

"It wasn't so much him not calling, Mr Holmes – Sherlock. I really quite forgot about him for a couple of days, down to the robbery an` all."

After, what has seemed a fulfilling and successful date, poor Theresa, a hotel receptionist at a family run hotel, had returned to a ransacked and thoroughly burgled mess. Although nothing had been taken, everything she owned had been turfed out onto the floor and rifled through. She had thrown away half of her clothes (particularly the underwear) and had to replace all locks and a window.

"I never did hear from him again, M – Sherlock, but that wasn't the weirdest thing…"

"That you have a long haired Persian cat, despite your many allergies?"

"Oh – er…"

"That your flatmate is at least six inches taller than you, but is far less accommodating?"

"Well, yes, but – "

"That you work a night shift, but your supervisors have no sympathy that building work has started in your street. You are exhausted and thinking about a job change. Furthermore – "

"Sherlock…" John has stopped taking notes – a sure sign to Sherlock that he is veering into `_showing off_` territory.

He smiles over-brightly and nods for her to continue.

"I was in Gianni`s (the coffee shop on the corner) and we were, you know – "

"Drinking coffee?"

" – chatting. And, what do I find, but Ella, my neighbour, had also been burgled, only last week."

John was hoping Sherlock wasn't going to offer some comment about a `lazy universe`, but he remained in listening mode.

"And, that wasn`t the end of it – "Terri leant forward herself and Molly had to turn away to hide a smile at John`s pinked cheeks verses Sherlock`s poker face.

" – I found out, through Twitter, actually, that not one, nor two, nor even three neighbours had been burgled in the last three weeks …"

Sherlock`s left foot was tapping, imperceptible to most.

"Was it four neighbours, Terri?" Cut in John Watson, recovering his countenance. "You are saying that four neighbours were burgled in the very same street over the last few weeks?" He looks at Sherlock as she nods. "An organised gang – "

Sherlock holds up his hand.

"Tell me, Miss Wright, was anything taken in any of these break-ins?"

Shaking her head – "same as mine. Just left a right old mess."

He nods.

"And the victims – there was something you all have in common?"

She nods.

"There was – there is." Terri takes a delicate nibble of her custard cream and a few crumbs fall downwards.

"Women. Around my age. All single women. Weird, eh?"

And Sherlock sits back with a happy little smile.

Later that evening, John Watson sips his tea, speculatively. He is currently between assignments, since signing back up with the MOD as a Medical Recruitment Officer. Truth be told, he is loving his first hiatus from work for what seems like forever. And he is putting his time to good use, he feels.

"Think it may have potential, Sherlock? Seems odd, so many break-ins with nothing stolen."

Sherlock has adopted his lying-on-the-sofa-with-steepled-fingers-and-closed-eyes pose. It would be just like old times, except for a fast-asleep twenty month old child lying on top of his chest (and, John noted happily, drooling on his purple shirt). Benedict rose and fell slightly with every breath his father took.

"Not enough data – yet. Need to check the press for links. I might ask Wiggins to take a stroll down Ms Wright`s street tomorrow. He really is becoming quite the observer."

John puts down his cup suddenly. It clatters more than he meant it to. Or perhaps he did mean it to.

"I could take a look – if you like?"

Sherlock breathed out slowly, elevating his son again. "Hardly a good use of your time."

John feels he should, perhaps change the direction of the conversation, for his own good.

A grown man – a father himself – should not be feeling (jealous?) odd about an eagle-eyed _down and out_ helping out his friend. Ridiculous.

"Tell me, then, how you knew those things?"

"Things?"

"I get the Persian cat (black shirt), but the taller, unaccommodating flat mate?"

"Mmm. Well applied eyeliner; poorly applied lip liner. Mirror in house too high up for Ms Wright. Flatmate taller, so wants it her own way."

"The night shift; horrible bosses and possible job change?"

"As I said, good eye make-up, but foundation failing to conceal under eye dark circles. A redness in both ear canals – probably not an infection then – but more likely to be an allergy; perhaps an allergy to earplug foam. She does seem to be the type of person susceptible to this. Slight indentations around both temples. Recently removed what could be an eye mask. So, keeping out the sound and the light. I could see cement residue on her trouser cuff. She has walked passed at least one building site. Also, our client had a CV and Guardian jobs page slightly protruding from her bag. She had mentioned how much she loved working at the hotel, so, surely she would attempt to change her shifts? The CV shows they wouldn't or couldn't accommodate her. I prefer to think _wouldn't._"

"Why on earth would you think that?" John picks up his cup and saucer again.

"Human nature? Female boss – wife of the owner."

John is nodding, realising. "She was jealous. Of Terri."

Sherlock nods, slightly, adding:

"Who wouldn't be – of such _magnificent_ breasts?"

And he opens one eye as John`s cup and saucer clatter together once again.


	2. Give and Take

Mary Watson`s feet move swiftly and silently through deserted and echoing hospital corridors. There seem to be miles and miles of them – never ending and stretching out into infinity. Everywhere she needs to be is always somewhere else, somewhere miles away from where she is now.

Mary wears the white coat, stethoscope and exhausted demeanour of a first year medical student on their first rotation (_Foundation Doctor FY1_). With her background knowledge and talents, Mary had fitted in pretty well to the course, enjoying working at Bart`s, a pretty familiar hospital for her. She was a good listener, intuitive, fearless, and very empathetic. She picked up new ideas quickly and her tutors saw a promising future for Mary; possibly even a surgery specialism.

At this particular moment, however, six weeks of night shifts and on-calls meant Mary was not thinking any further into the future than making it to six a.m. and drinking a giant cup of coffee within the next few moments…providing she found the machine, which was supposed to be on this corridor…

Within the next moment, an unexpected glow from the doorway of a darkened ward caught her eye, and Mary slowed right down, alert to anything out of the norm. It was the entrance to ward 15, a Cardio geriatric ward, which she had rushed passed several times over the past six weeks. Cardiac disorders as coronary heart disease, including myocardial infarction, heart failure, cardiomyopathy, arrhythmias (such as atrial fibrillation); vascular disorders such as atherosclerosis and peripheral arterial disease, which cause significant morbidity and mortality in aged people. All in all, a place you aim not to be admitted to.

As she neared the light source, Mary saw that no nursing staff were in the immediate vicinity, and the glow emanated from a small light at the side of a bed. A prone, elderly lady (_Charlotte Rainsthorp_ – Mary read as she neared) was accompanied, at this unearthly hour, by a visitor. A man in his forties sat next to her bed and was leaning in towards Mrs Rainsthorp, speaking in a low, yet insistent way, close to her ear. A son, perhaps? It was, she thought, slightly unusual for such a late night visitor anywhere but on the high dependency wards, where patients were critical. As she stood there, her decision whether to enquire or not was made for her, as he looked up into her face and appeared quite startled. Mary did pride herself on her ability to approach unheard.

"Is everything alright, Mr – ?"

She saw his eyes dart to her white coat and doctor paraphernalia, then to Mrs Rainsthorp, then back to face – all within three seconds.

"Does your – mother, need anything? I could find someone for you…"

She saw his face relax and his head shake. He was red-haired, balding, with ruddy, puffy cheeks. His dress was very low key – tracksuit bottoms and a dirty sweatshirt. Maybe he`d rushed over in a hurry, to see his ailing mother.

"I – we`re fine, thank you – Doctor Watson." Yeah, Mary noted, he had pretty good eyes too, reading her name badge in the darkened room. "My mum hasn't long and, well, I know she doesn't sleep much and the staff have been – very accommodating, letting me visit. I do work shifts you see."

Mary leans down to speak to Mrs Rainthorp, as she wasn't moving very much. Her pulse felt elevated, however, and her eyes looked a little – moist – as if she was upset.

"How are you this evening, Mrs Rainthorp?" Mary`s eyes (also excellent) cast down the chart. Advanced cardiomyopathy. Very frail and not expected to leave hospital. As the lady tried to whisper a few words, Mary`s blue eyes widened as she read the words: `marital status: widowed, no children` at the foot of the chart; simultaneously turning her head to see the chair empty and hear the door clatter shut.

And the whisper became more distinct.

"Not my son," it said.

Three days later, Mary was on the third floor of Bart`s again, taking some bloods from Mr Albert Beckett, an eighty year old male, with Parkinson`s disease. His tremors had worsened quite suddenly, and his medicines and dosages were being investigated. Mr Beckett was frail of body, but strong of mind. He clearly had developed a little crush on Mary and didn't mind her drawing blood. Everyone else got his wrath.

"Ah, you`re the gentlest of the vampires, Mary. When are you going to marry me?"

"When my husband realises he`s made a massive mistake, kicks me out, and I find out you`ve got a million quid stashed under your mattress, Albert." Mary smiles as she removed the cuff from his arm. "All done."

Albert rolls down his sleeve and taps the side of his nose, grinning a gummy grin (Mary never understood what happened to all the dentures on wards sometimes – they went away for cleaning and didn't come back for days…)

"Well, maybe that`ll be sooner than ye think, pretty eyes." She helps him roll down the last bit of sleeve. "I`m a bit of a millionaire, see."

Mary nods and smiles, writing on the side of the Vacutainer bottle. "You are looking more attractive with every minute that passes. Let`s get away from this dump and go on a cruise, somewhere hot."

Albert looks slightly regretful and his shaking hand grasps the sleeve of her coat.

"Ah, pretty eyes, if only you`d agreed yesterday… I`ve promised it all to another."

"Well, that`s charming, Albert! I thought I was the only girl for you."

"You are, you are!" he does look quite disconcerted. Mary is surprised. He is usually quite the joker. "It`s a shame, but I`ve invested it. It will have doubled this time next year!"

Mary gets up, smiling at him.

"Then, I`ll be sticking around for that day." She says.

And, Mary Watson thinks nothing more of it, until she is sat in the morgue, eating a sandwich with Molly Hooper, a week later. They are eating in lab number 2, since there had been a floater from the Thames brought it to lab 1 (Molly`s first choice) and the smell did tend to _linger_.

"I love smoked salmon," Mary swapped one of her sandwiches with one of Molly`s. She hadn`t actually remembered to ask if it was ok to do this, but Molly didn't mind. Sherlock stole food from her all of the time.

"When I`m rich," continues Mary, "I will eat smoked salmon for every meal. And twice on Sundays."

"You said that last week," answers Molly, biting into cheese and pickle. "About profiteroles."

"Mmm…them too."

Some chewing ensues.

"Hey, Mary, you`ve been on Ward 16 this week, haven`t you? Geriatric Neurology."

"Mmm."

"Did you know, one of their patients IS actually a millionaire, _multi_, in fact."

"Mmm … really?"

"Yep, Sarah told me. Albert Beckett. His family made a pile of money in Shipping, on Tyneside in the 1920`s. He`s got houses in Northumberland, Marbella and Geneva. He`s low key though; like that _Secret Millionaire_ programme …"

And Mary finds she has suddenly stopped chewing.

**x0x**

Sherlock Holmes is in his Mind Palace.

He knows he has a memory in there that will be useful to him in the solving of Theresa Wright`s case; he just needs to locate it. It is most probably in Lestrade`s `room` – a case mentioned by the Scotland Yarder, probably about a month ago. He had put it in the drawer marked `_Dull – with potential development at a later date_`, which could, he thinks, prove to be true.

Not the disappearance of the footballer (tax fraud); not the kidnapping of the Crufts winning shitszu (inside job); nor the defrosting of all the freezers in all of the inner city branches of _Marks & Spencer_ (revenge for a vol-u-vent poisoning) … _something else_ …

Ah – _there_ you are …

The Stolen Hard Drive.

Three and a half weeks ago, Emsworth & Dodd International Conglomerates had suffered a traumatic break in which had resulted in the loss of several hundred account details from their computing network. Thanks to a news black-out (funded, thought Sherlock, from the bank`s own coffers) customers were yet to realise their bank had let their details out into the world, but the bank had expected a hefty ransom demand for their safe return.

But it never came.

An odd case, then, where no-one was the profiteer. Criminals had gone to great lengths to break into a very high tech security system (undoubtedly an inside job), taken the sensitive information, but done absolutely nothing with it.

Bizarre – hence the potential.

Sherlock pulled out the address of Emsworth & Dodd and congratulates his powers of retention on their reliability. It was two streets away from Miss Wright`s home, on the _boulevard of repeated break-ins. _

Excellent.

The fourth burglary victim fitted the pattern. All burgled on the night they were out. None had lost any property from the break-ins. All were young, quite attractive and currently single.

John had spoken to Ella, Lorraine and Jayne, and had reported back to Sherlock. Wiggins was currently busy at Sherlock`s lab in the 221C basement, cataloguing slides. Molly Hooper may, or may not have had something to do with this.

Sherlock is looking through the pictures of the ladies and their houses on John`s phone.

"They were all on dates."

"You think? They didn't specify."

"I don't think, I know."

"You do? From your sitting room, you know? I don't see why you couldn't have come along – you said this was a seven, at least."

"Busy."

The only evidence of `busy` that could be seen by John, was a small list, in Sherlock`s spidery handwriting, of names. And the word `cake` with a question mark next to it. But he kept his counsel.

"They were all on dates, and what is more, they were all with the same man."

"How can you – "

Sherlock pushes John`s phone towards him. "Look in the window area of Ella`s front room."

John squints at, then enlarges the picture. Pottery cat, cup of tea, vase with flowers, a sock?

"We`re looking for the Lost Sock Burglar? I do hope we find him, since he`s been pinching them from me since I was little."

Sherlock ignores and scrolls to the next picture, the window sill of Lorraine`s front room. Two candles in holders, vase, a thank you card, a framed photograph of an older couple.

Then the next, Jayne`s window. A bowl of fruit, two framed photographs, a wine bottle, flowers in a vase.

John shakes his head. It was an eclectic mix. Except for –

"The vases? They all have vases, but different ones, Sherlock …"

Sherlock is shaking his head. Sometimes, he makes John feel he has never really learnt to read – just memorised lots of words.

"Go on, then."

"The flower, John. They all have the same flower."

And John looks closer, to see the single green stem of a white rose, in every single picture.

"I rang Terri an hour ago," continues Sherlock. "She sent me this picture."

Terri`s window sill held a statue of a unicorn, a clock and a vase with a single white rose.

"Terri Wright wouldn't have bought herself a flower for her front room – she is very allergic to pollens, as we saw. No-one who really knew her would buy her any cut flowers either, so it must have been someone who wanted to give her a gift, but didn't know her very well. The man she went on the date with. She clearly holds out some hope of him getting back in touch, and so keeps the flower. He hasn't; and he never will."

Sherlock, gets up from his chair, and brings his lap top over to John. The Scotland Yard notes on the case of the bank`s missing hard drive is displayed.

"Shortly after this robbery, these dates and break-ins start happening; all within two streets of the bank. The break-ins all happen the same night as the dates and each girl is given a single white rose, which she, naturally, displays in her front window – oddly enough, the symbol of virtue and chastity."

John sat up in his chair, suddenly riveted.

"The rose, it`s a sign – a signal!"

Sherlock smiles and his blue eyes glitter, happily.

"Yes, indeed. There are at least two conspirators here. One takes out the girl and whilst she is out, the other breaks in and burgles the house. He steals nothing, because he is looking for something. Something very specific."

"You think it could be linked to the Bank job? But, how?"

Sherlock is sitting down on the rug, amongst the _Animal Sounds Farm_ and _Racing Ramps Garage_, belonging to his son. It is a strange, yet mildly amusing sight that John will later relate to Mary.

"This morning, I asked Wiggins to visit the florist named on the card that came with Terri`s flower. They confirmed that a white rose was sent, that day, to Miss Amber Snow, at number 25. From a young gentleman; the same young gentleman who answers the descriptions of the other four ladies. I have spoken to Miss Snow, and she has agreed to co-operate with us tonight."

"Tonight?"

Sherlock is already up, shedding his dressing gown and looking for his scarf.

"Yes, John. The game is on, and we are going to catch ourselves a thief."

"You want me to come along?"

Sherlock halts, halfway through his scarf threading and collar turning.

"Absolutely. Where would I be without my Boswell? Come on!" And he smiles at his friend as they clatter down the stairs.

John is sitting alone outside the restaurant, in his car. He is watching the animated and cheery face of a young, bearded man, with crinkling green eyes and a striped fisherman`s sweater. Quite a nice sweater, actually. He is sitting opposite Amber Snow, and as far as John can see, they are sharing a dipping platter of dim sum. John`s stomach growls, belligerently, and he shifts in his seat.

"_A man is running from the scene of his robbery. He is trying not to arouse suspicion since he has just breached the security of one of the City`s largest banking establishments. He is casually dressed and carries the stolen hard drive in a supermarket carrier bag. Tesco`s, to be precise. On turning the corner, he accidentally collides with a pretty, young, fair haired girl, banging his head. This description could apply to several ladies on Shoscombe Old Avenue, but in this instance, it is Amber Snow, a twenty three year old nurse. Amber is also carrying a Tesco carrier bag. As you can now see, John, the bags are mistakenly exchanged, and Amber has the hard drive, leaving our thief with a box of matches and a multipack of Jaffa Cakes. Poor exchange, I think. The only clue he has is that, before leaving him, she had said, `that looks like a nasty bruise, come back and I`ll check it for you, I only live in the next street.` She is clearly worried about his minor head injury. To his everlasting regret, he refuses, and has, ever since, been trying to track her down. It was plain bad luck that it was the very last girl he dated that was the one who took home his prize. Tonight, John, we are going to see what happens when one of the ladies of Shoscombe Old Avenue go out for dinner with a handsome stranger."_

Sherlock had filled John in during the car journey, and been dropped off himself, near to number 25, to await the burglar. Once John had established the date was underway, he would join Sherlock to await developments.

Simple.

What could possibly go wrong?


	3. Solo Dancing

This time, as Mary Watson is racing through the almost deserted corridors of Bart`s, she is carrying a whining two year old boy, for added discomfort. She cradles Sholto`s head with one hand, whilst slamming open the doors with the other. She is on high alert – someone has hurt her other boy.

She dimly notices a fellow FY1, Andrew, as she passes, but has no time to return his cheery greeting.

It seems an age before she staggers in through the doors of the Morgue and is met by the sight of –

_Oh, thank God_.

John is sitting on top of Molly`s lab bench whilst she meticulously stitches up a small wound on his forearm. His nose is bloodied and his clothes ripped and dirty, but that seems to be it. He is wincing, but also laughing at Sherlock, as the latter sits, spinning slightly on a lab stool, eating a digestive biscuit. Sherlock`s left eye is swollen and almost shut, but he too, is high, Mary notices, with the adrenalin of a successful fight.

John twists instantly to face his wife, but Molly holds his arm fast and he knows he must be still. Mary approaches and Sholto has stopped crying upon seeing his father.

"Daddy."

"Oh, John." Mary gives him an awkward, half embrace, sandwiching their son between them. She notices his eyes are shining and she remembers that feeling. Physical pain and discomfort are nothing when you have achieved your directive. A chase should come with a thrill, otherwise it`s no chase at all.

"Mary, it was brilliant – "

As if she couldn't tell.

"You two look quite rough – he put up a bit of a fight, then?"

"He had reinforcements," comments Sherlock, catching the ice pack Molly has thrown without even looking. "Baseball bats, too. It`s a good job I know some Ju-jitsu…"

"It`s also a good job I had a gun," adds John, stroking his son`s fair head and grinning like a loon at his wife. "It was just as Sherlock said. One took the girl out on a date, one searched the house for the drive. The man who had collided with Amber Snow was in deep trouble with his bosses. He had to get it back."

"Let`s just say, his desperation was evident in his fighting technique," adds Sherlock. "Lestrade, for once, was in the nick of time. And, Messrs Emsworth & Dodd were more than grateful for the return of their property."

"Keep going Sherlock," Mary is watching (and admiring) the suturing technique of Dr Molly Hooper, "and you`ll be up for a Knighthood."

And there is a kind of awkward, loaded silence in the Morgue whilst Mary watches the tips of Molly`s ears go pink. Sherlock has gone strangely quiet and a tap is dripping, sporadically, in one of the sinks on the other side of the lab.

John and she exchange looks.

"No-o-o …"

Sherlock has stuck the ice pack on his eye, and looks at them, like a strangely embarrassed modern day pirate.

"I naturally refused. Mycroft was furious, but I couldn't possibly accept it…" He is speaking very rapidly.

John feels his wife`s expression is mirroring his own one of semi-amused incredulity.

Mary breaks into a grin. "You couldn't risk `Sir Boast-a-lot` again, could you? Plus, I think you`ll probably be holding out for a peerage."

Sherlock is more than aware that the Watsons are giggling like children at his expense, but his poor, beaten face is passive. Molly has finished dressing John`s wound and is drying her hands as she walks across to him.

"It`s all about relief and adrenalin surges, Sherlock. They don't _mean _to be mean. They both love you very much." She tenderly brushes the hair away from above his swollen eye and kisses his beautiful mouth.

"And so do I," she whispers.

**x0x**

Three weeks later, and Sherlock has a healed eye, yet a sour expression. His caseload has reached an all-time low and his best friend is leaving for pastures new.

John has called in to give news he`ll be away in 48 hours, as he is joining the MoD Army Doctor Recruitment Programme in Brighton, under the command of a newly re-instated Major James Sholto. They will be touring the UK shortly afterwards.

"As if naming your son after him wasn't enough," pouts Sherlock Holmes, looking moodily out of the window.

John shakes his head; he`s seen it all before, and knows that it will pass. He still, however, doesn't envy Molly Hooper over the next few days, and feels mildly grateful Baker Street is no longer his fixed address.

"When you named your son after a sodding _fountain_ in Marylebone Park, did you hear me complain?"

Sherlock is in his camel-coloured dressing gown and track suit bottoms – not a good sign.

"I`ll see very little of the Major, anyway," continues John. "My new colleague is going to be Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable, an IT specialist – bit of a geek, apparently, which is a good job, since I`m a bit lost after switching them on and off again if they go wrong…Sherlock, you just aren`t listening to a word, are you?"

"Just thinking how charmingly named your next son will be – Thorneycroft Watson. Splendid."

John actually laughs. "God, Sherlock, you are being ever so slightly ridiculous. Is there nothing on the horizon, case wise?"

Sherlock is squeezing blue murder out of one of Benedict`s foam balls. "Pah! Nothing! Lestrade tells me the weeks before Christmas are `a quiet time` for the criminal. Strange, since Wiggins tells me quite the opposite – Christmas gifts stolen to order was quite his speciality."

"Great."

"Jocelyn Blake, it appears, has been let out on parole, too."

"The White Rose Robber?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, theatrically. "I await your account with baited breath. Yes, him. His partner in crime seems to prefer to stay in Pentonville until the trial. It tends to tell me that he feels safer inside."

"You think there could be recriminations, since they failed?"

"I do. Dishonour amongst thieves is common, but there was someone else behind a job this complex. Mr Blake must be very confident he`ll get out of the country before his ex-employers catch up with him … _oh God_!"

Sherlock looks uncharacteristically stricken as he leaps across the coffee table, landing prone upon the sofa. His hands are actually covering his face and John is standing up, in concern.

"What`s the matter now? Regretting refusing that Knighthood? _Sir_ Sherlock Holmes might have brought in a few more clients…"

"Please, John! Don`t leave until Wednesday – promise me!"

"I`ve told you, I`m not leaving until Thursday morning, so dial down the amateur dramatics!"

Sherlock is sitting up, showing `_Hounds of Baskerville_` levels of fear – "You don`t understand…tomorrow – here – it`s awful…"

"Sherlock – "

"Molly`s having a birthday party for Ben, with the _Playgroup Mummies_ – and there isn`t a thing I can do to avoid it!" And he flops back down on the sofa, defeated.

**x0x**

Gregory Lestrade hunches in the shadows of the large dark block of a looming building. Rain is falling, sleet almost, and it`s bloody freezing sheltering in this doorway. As Donovan`s radio crackles and she barks some orders to the poor sap at the other end, Greg reflects on his current situation, both physical and emotional.

It's a shockingly cold December night, and instead of sitting around a warming log fire, drinking mulled wine and roasting chestnuts (or whatever they do in those Christmas films) with loved ones, he is squeezed into a stinking back alley in a very unappealing part of East London`s docklands area, waiting to raid an underground nightclub. A very well connected dealer should, at that moment, be plying his wares to the Goths, or hipsters, or whatever they were calling themselves these days, in the pulsing bowels of the adjacent building. Pushed up against the brick, Greg felt the thrumming insistence of the bass, pounding the ears and bodies of the clubbers like a giant, communal heartbeat.

Donovan`s radio crackles again.

"Units all in place, Sir, time to move in."

"Then let`s bloody well go, Sally, `cos this night can`t end soon enough for me."

And when it ended, Greg reflected, as he turned up his collar and stepped out into the night, he would be going back home to a dark, cold house with only a Yucca plant named Brian for company.

In the bleak midwinter, and no mistake.

The wall of heat hits them as the Yarders walk down the dimly lit stairs into the basement of the club. Hundreds of bodies spread out before them, all throbbing together in a collective swell. Hair, skin, sweat, smoke, like a wall of humanity, enveloped the cold, overdressed officers descending into its depths.

Lestrade was wanting the raid to be more covert than was usual, so the team split up and were swallowed up into the masses. He watched Sally`s dark curls disappear amongst the many heads, and he took another look around to get his bearings in the pit of the gyrating throng.

The music was relentless.

_I go dancing by myself  
I go dancing with no one else  
Solo dancing, push me as I go  
I go dancing it's so intense  
I will dance 'till the bitter end  
No point in asking,  
'Cause I always dance alone…_

He thinks he sees Anderson and Saunders disappearing around the back to the toilets and decides to go along – always likely to find something unsavoury there.

"Sorry – sorry, can I just push – excuse me – "

Stifling in his overcoat, Greg finds himself pressed up _so_ tight against complete strangers; he is worried they can feel the outline of his – warrant card.

And then he looks up and he sees her.

_Hypnotised by a lost emotion  
Music stops – and the spell is broken…_

She is standing to the far left and, true to the music, she is dancing entirely in her own world. In the red tinged half-light of the club, he sees her fragile and delicate frame undulating to the rhythm and her dark, wavy hair, sweaty and dishevelled, whipping across her small, pale face. Her eyes are closed and her red painted mouth is slightly open, pink tongue just visible against white teeth.

_Don't hold back  
My dance devotion  
It's the path that I have chosen  
Hypnotised by a lost emotion…_

Her hips, clad in the tightest of black jeans, move in perfect synchronicity to the music, but it is her absolute confidence and certainty in her right to be there, just dancing, that has him – entranced … enthralled – Jesus, what the hell is happening to him?

"Sir – " A hand on his arm – Donovan.

Greg`s head whips round guiltily and he`s very glad of the red glow on the dance floor.

"We`ve lost sight of the suspect – McCarthy. Think he spotted Anderson by the bogs…"

"Great! Covert as ever!" He sighs; looks like Brian is going to be lonely tonight…

Donovan leads him up the stairs and out of the mosh pit to the back of the club, where Charles McCarthy has last been seen. The pushing and swelling of the crowd means he is a little way behind her, and the crush is such that he isn`t instantly aware of the light hand touching his shoulder.

Halfway up the stairs, Gregory Lestrade turns around to lock eyes with –

_Her_.

The Solo Dancing girl.

Her clear blue eyes, beneath dark, fine brows, meet with his and it is a second before he notices the red, full mouth is moving, and words are coming out.

"Ladies lavatory, third cubicle on left hand side. He is armed, with a flick knife."

And before he can utter a single word in return, the crowd surges again like an anthropomorphic wave, and she is swallowed up.

Gone.

* * *

**A/N: The song in the night club is `Solo Dancing` by Indiana - it`s really good - haunting!**

**Arcoiris: Hi there! I think what Sherlock means by `professional` dates from John nagging him about not saying exactly what he feels like in front of new clients (e.g. ASIB when he describes the poor witness to the boomerang killing when he is sitting right behind him!) - self-edit Sherlock! He does like to be private about himself and Molly though, I agree.**


	4. A Bohemian Scandal

Mary Watson` mouth is very close to Molly Hooper`s ear, which is perhaps necessary, due to all the screaming.

"Exits are blocked. I have the perimeter, and the dogs are _go_. You only have to give the word. The _moment_ you see him bolt – "

Molly snorts like a Shetland pony as she is cutting tiny cubes of cheese and mushing them onto sticks with tiny cubes of pineapple.

"He`s not gonna bolt, Mary. He has promised to – _mingle_."

Mary steals a cube of pineapple and chucks it into her mouth. Her love of `_Tea party Sherlock_` holds no bounds and is matched only by her husband`s. John is currently videoing the event; partly as a charming childhood memory for Benedict to look back on, and partly because the lads at the Yard have chipped in a fiver each for a copy. He naturally, will not really be obliging them, but it was good to have something to hold over Sherlock for whenever he becomes too much of a _git_.

The red recording light is flashing as John homes in on Sherlock`s face while he stands, statue-like, holding a tea-pot and surrounded by at least six middle class London _mummies_. It could be carved out of alabaster.

"It is lovely to finally meet you, Sherlock. " An argyle-sweatered red-faced girl with a ginger pony-tail is giving him the benefit of her most flirtatious smile. Unfortunately, it is also her most toothsome and horsey smile.

"Me too," gushes a rangy and over-gilded blonde next to her. Both of them are fixing his face with a determined intensity. John homes in again. A third mummy adds to the throng:

"I simply could not believe, when I first met our little Molly, that you were Ben`s father. Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective! I can`t get my husband _off _Dr Watson`s blog. He l_ove_s it. They all do at his club – a charming diversion for the busy man in the City."

_`Statue Sherlock`_ suddenly comes to life, as if remembering a directive, and gives a (rather alarming) smile to the ensemble.

"Delighted I can be of service – tea?"

All six simultaneously hold out their china cups.

Mrs Hudson is carrying a large platter of chocolate Rice Krispie cakes from the overflow fridge in Molly`s 221A flat, and into Sherlock`s kitchen for some final sprinklings of icing sugar. She touches Molly on the arm and whispers, confidentially.

"How`s he doing, dear? I did make sure there was nothing – _unusual_ – in the fridge, you know, just in case."

Molly puts the final cheese and pineapple stick into the cucumber crocodile (carved by Sherlock with his bowie knife) and smiles warmly at her landlady.

"Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson, but he has been so much better since _Skylab _was built. Haven`t seen a body part for months."

She carries in the reptilian masterpiece to a small and embarrassing round of applause from the mummies, which she decides, was a little unnecessary.

"Ah, Molly dear, what a charming little centrepiece! You have put your nurse training to some good use, I see." A smiling assassin of a mummy by the name of Alex was beaming at her with very expensive dentistry and a handful of pristine diamonds.

Molly had long since given up correcting them to the fact that she was a doctor, and actually did a little more intricate carving on a daily basis than a cucumber crocodile. Life was too short. She had her son`s special day to celebrate and her Consulting Detective to monitor.

"Thank you, Alex. I hope you`ll have a Krispie cake – Mrs Hudson has gone to _some_ trouble right there…"

"Oh," Alex moves in, conspiratorially. "Your _help_? Is she quite alright? She seems a little – elderly – to be waiting on."

As John is filming this little exchange, Molly resists the urge to tell Alex to _sod off_, and smiles with gritted teeth.

"I couldn't possibly, darling," adds Miranda, the red-headed horse face. She is patting her stomach, primly. "Slave to the Atkins. Carbs are the enemy once one`s over thirty five." She smiles, glancing down at Molly`s abdomen.

"I`m thirty four," rejoins Molly Hooper, stuffing most of a Krispie cake, whole, into her mouth.

Back in the kitchen, Mary has found a bottle of white wine and hands her a glass.

"Just say the word," _sotto voce_, "and I`ll take them all out for you."

Little tears swim in Molly`s eyes.

"You say the sweetest things," she replies, patting Mary on the arm.

Benedict Sigerson Hamish Holmes is stomping proudly around the gathering on his two year old legs, holding a plush dinosaur. He isn`t used to large numbers congregating at his home (not ones without warrant cards and badges, anyway) and has his mother`s smiley and crowd pleasing persona. He also has his father`s beautiful eyes and raven curls, which contrast quite harshly to some of the pasty-faced and sparsely haired specimen`s attending as his special guests. The over gilded blonde, Olivia, is the proud owner of little Sheridan; a chubby and ruddy boy, with a mousey tufts and a permanently crusty nose to chin area. Excusable in a two year old, perhaps, but his peevish snatching and yelling are seldom addressed by his mother, who is too busy fluttering her assets vividly at Sherlock to notice her son`s juvenile misdemeanors.

"Mine!" Splutters Sheridan, reaching over to pull the dinosaur out of Ben`s hands.

Sheridan`s own hands are chocolate smeared (clearly _not _a slave to the Atkins) and Benedict looks, in horror, as is precious new toy is both sullied and stolen in the same instant.

"Noooo! He`s mine!" Ben uses his distinct height advantage to grab and lever the toy from the interloper, who, sensing when he is beaten, promptly sits down heavily on his nappy-padded backside and begins a fairly rigorous and insistent screaming.

"Mammmmmmmaaaaa! Mammmaaaaaa! MY dinosaur! It`s MINE!"

Mummies are rushing in from all directions to police the situation. Even `Mummy Olivia` tears her coy smile away from Sherlock long enough to rush to her son`s side. Scooping up the puce Sheridan, who now resembles a miniature post box, with his wide, rectangular screaming mouth, she turns on the birthday boy with enough disgust to wither a house plant at fifty paces.

"Sheri, my poor, poor little fellow … and _you_, Benedict Holmes, need to learn how to SHARE! All the lovely toys you`ve been given today, and you won`t let your little friend share your dinosaur? Poor manner, Benny – really poor."

Alex and Miranda ostensibly gather up their own pudding-esque offspring and begin extolling `_the virtues of sharing_` to a couple of bemused two year olds, who only want to play with Benedict`s toy garage and rub Krispie cake into the carpet – in that order.

A by-standing mummy shakes her head sadly and comments, in a stage whisper, about the dangers of bringing up a baby in `_a Bohemian household_`.

And, that about does it.

Molly places a restraining hand on Mary, as the latter is shifting forward into the fray. John stands on the other side of his wife, and simultaneously whispers in her ear:

"Wait – "

Sherlock Holmes has passed the tea pot to Mrs Hudson and is approaching the scene with all the aquiline grace and menace of a jungle cat.

" – he`s got this one."

The mummies raise their heads, alert to his presence, and the antelopes on the Serengeti have no idea what is coming to them.

Sherlock`s eyes are icy blue, but flashing a cold nitrogen fire that makes Alex shut her open mouth, abruptly.

He points to her, tilting his head slightly.

"You are worried that your husband is having an affair with your Au Pair. He is. You have checked your phone no less that eleven times since you arrived. The phone is not actually yours – since I don`t think `_Hello Kitty_` would be your choice of cover – but probably your employee`s, and you have stolen it, waiting for a text to arrive for her from your errant husband. Despite your age, you are wearing uncharacteristic glitter nail varnish and a large armful of bangles. That, combined with the clear botox injection marks in your forehead, tell me you are trying to compete with a twenty one year old girl who has caught your beleaguered husband`s wandering eye. By the way, it isn`t working."

Hardly drawing breath, Sherlock turns towards Miranda, of the horsey face.

"You have a secret online gambling habit – probably Bingo, despite it being `low brow`. You are a ruthless social climber, but clearly can`t quite abandon your roots. Your phone Apps show extreme interest in three sites, and you have recently lost your holiday money by gambling. Your nails are bitten to the quick with stress and your bag contains a bikini you are returning to the shop and a budget holiday brochure, in an attempt to salvage some kind of break for your unfortunate family. It seems unlikely."

As Sherlock turns to Olivia, Molly almost sees her shrink away, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Hmm – most interestingly, although you have extolled the virtues of _sharing_ to my son, you only take your cocaine when your husband is away. When speaking earlier about local play parks, you mentioned an area by the name of `_Anger`s Arches_` which is a colloquial term for a local dealing spot and exclusively spoken by users and addicts alike. You have a permanent sniff which you blame on a cold, but also receding gums and a certain jittery agitation which cannot be ascribed to any type of virus I know. Perhaps the last hit is wearing off; children`s parties can be so trying, no?"

A strangulated sob escapes from Olivia, but apart from this, the room is completely silent. Even the tremulous Sheridan is mesmerised by Sherlock.

"Gosh," breezes Molly Hooper brightly, after around ten silent seconds have passed, "well if it isn`t just about time for the party bags!"

And John Watson lowers his camera; a very proud grin on his face.


	5. Ties that Bind

Mycroft Holmes has dropped by Baker Street when parties are all over and little boys are fast asleep. A wise man, indeed.

Sherlock sits in his armchair and opens the envelope handed to him by his brother.

"A lifetime membership to the Royal Opera House – thank you, Mycroft, on behalf of my two year old son."

Mycroft coyly nods in acceptance of thanks and attempts to eradicate the smell of chocolate Rice Krispie cakes and trifle from his olfactory senses.

"Thanks are unnecessary, dear brother. Your musical talents are substantial, but neglected. It is clearly up to other family members to engender musical appreciation into the younger generation."

Sherlock shrugs – an acceptance of sorts, and steeples his fingers. His brow is furrowed and he finds himself experiencing an unusual and unfamiliar emotion.

_Uncertainty_.

"Family members were somewhat absent from today`s proceedings Mycroft. Un-used as I am to children`s birthday parties, I feel sure that grandparents are a singularly recurrent feature. Perhaps, even one of their obligations?"

Mycroft uncrosses and re-crosses his long legs – a nervous habit which he uses when needing a moment to – collect his thoughts.

"Mummy was unwell, Sherlock, as I am sure you were notified."

"Hmm."

Mycroft is almost able to taste chocolate cake and jelly and custard. He really needs to focus.

"I feel certain that a marvelous time was had by all. An _obligation of Mummies_…"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and feels his brother is doing what he does best – avoiding the issue.

"Our mother really should work on taking her evening primrose oil or vitamins around the time of her grandson`s main events – birth, baptism, birthdays … it seems her health is compromised on occasions that are landmarks." He rummages around, under the chair cushion, and fixes a nicotine patch on his bare forearm. Then adds another, for good luck.

"Whilst I care very little, I have observed that Molly loses a little more of her – optimism – when another rejection is forthcoming." He turns his gaze fully towards his brother.

"I cannot have Molly losing her optimism, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighs. His stomach is grumbling and he has had a very long day in the cabinet antechamber, with a less than agreeable back bencher who has a mistress scandal just waiting to erupt onto the front pages.

"You know Mummy has been troubled by her _nerves _for many years Sherlock. A mostly idyllic childhood was occasionally interrupted when she needed respite from day to day life. Although much better now, she still has … lapses. Emotional times – young children – can test her resilience…"

Sherlock leans forward in his chair. For years he has ignored the elephant in the room. His mother was a force of nature; a ball of energy, strength and brilliance, whilst his calm and accepting father was happy to bask in the brightness that burned from her. However, the light that burns too brightly can dim and fade so swiftly, and so it was with Miriam Holmes. She could (and did) sometimes retreat into deep, dark troughs of introspection and depression, which resulted in her disappearing for certain sections of Sherlock`s formative years. He had loved his mother very much, but had found it impossible to reach her when she sank so low. Holmes family members did not discuss or explain. Episodes happened and they ended, and life carried on. Until the next time. When Sherlock had told Mrs Hudson that his mother "knew very little", he had meant about _him_. He decided, long ago, that he would not mourn for this loss, except that, sometimes, he found that he did.

Particularly now.

He gets up, crosses over to the kitchen and returns to Mycroft, holding forth a large slice of chocolate dinosaur birthday cake. It has the purple eye of a stegosaurus staring blindly upwards.

"Dear lord…"

"Desperate measures, Mycroft." Sherlock hands his brother the plate of cake, followed by a cake fork.

"Tell me something I don't know about our mother."

And Sherlock Holmes sits back, deciding that _now _really is the time to know.

**x0x**

A week earlier…

A late November morning sees Mycroft Holmes and his sibling walking along the Embankment, West through Cheyne Walk, towards Chelsea. They have passed the Chelsea Physic garden, the second largest botanical garden in Britain, and famed for its beautiful cedars. Although chilly, the day is bright and sunny and Mycroft, for one, welcomes the distinct lack of London pollution.

"Ah, number 41 – " Mycroft points with his umbrella. "The dwelling of James Clerk Maxwell, a mathematical physicist, in the 1860`s. Whilst lecturing at Kings College, he twice used the iron railings here in an experiment into electro-magnetic fields, much to the consternation of neighbours and visiting friends."

"How very – single-minded of him," remarks Seiga Harbargera, glancing up at the 18th Century Georgian building.

"True focus is a rare and special thing. It is your sweet little anecdotes, Mycroft, that have made me yearn for a visit to London. That, and a directive to attend for an assignment."

Their footsteps clip purposefully along the pavement and pass the iron railings and impressive gardens of the Walk. For a woman of such delicate stature, Seiga can match anyone`s walking speed with seemingly little effort.

"Yes, indeed, little sister. You naturally heard of the trouble at the Emsworth Bank – it was a botched attempt, thanks to our brother`s efforts, but the Professor was just – practicing, I suspect. Bigger fish are swimming closer with every day that passes."

Seiga slows a little, looking at him.

"Apologies – your English is so flawless, one sometimes forgets. There is a current whisper regarding the Magpie`s interest in our Military. It is unclear as to where the axe may fall. We need agents posted in several potential flash points. You will be one of those agents."

They walk silently for some minutes in the bright, brisk morning air.

"Clearly," remarks Seiga, "there is another reason, Mycroft. You have recalled me from Uppsala for this. There are agents more locally placed which could deal with it."

Mycroft halts his stride and faces Seiga, feeling around inside his Abercrombie for a slim, cream coloured envelope.

"We intercepted this yesterday."

Seiga turns it over in her hands. It feels and looks expensively and heavily bonded; addressed in mauve fountain pen. Inside is a single card; magpie etching on the front and the words `Happy Birthday Benedict` on the reverse. The name on the front of the envelope is `_Sherlock Holmes_`, and the address is `_221B Baker Street_`.

"This would indicate trouble." She remarks, softly.

"This," rejoins Mycroft, "would indicate a family reunion."


	6. Why I love Molly Hooper

To: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld . co .uk

From: dr_mollyH googlemail . co. uk

Subject: Data needed

Hi John,

I am really glad the _M*A*S*H_ tour is going well. Have you managed to recruit many budding doctors? I remember looking at that option before choosing Pathology; it seemed a massively brave and heroic path to tread. I think that repairing people is a hard enough thing to do, whatever the circumstances, but when being shot at on a war-torn front line? Shells exploding around your heads? No chance would I have managed that. You know where you are with the deceased. Things aren`t quite so … urgent.

Gosh, I`m not really sounding very positive about this am I? Good job I`m not working alongside you!

I re-read your last email about Captain Thorneycroft. He seems nice, but does he have some kind of PTSD? He sounds a bag of nerves – and the talking in his sleep must be trying for you (just when Sholto was sleeping through the night!) I let Sherlock read it too. I know you`ve sent him a few emails, but he`s been so busy lately – out and about with Mycroft, amongst other things – I don`t think he`s had time to write back. All he said was `more data needed` - not quite sure what that meant!

John, I must confess that today, I am mainly writing to you for selfish reasons. I would appreciate some advice about Sherlock. You know what he`s like, and I wouldn't change it for the world, but since Ben`s birthday, he has withdrawn so completely into himself, I don`t really know how to reach him. When he`s not out, he sits in Skylab till all hours, cataloguing or whatever, alone. He has said I can`t help him. He won`t see Wiggins or Lestrade and hasn't even added anything to `_The Science of Deduction_` for days.

This is clearly bad.

It sounds ridiculous, but my heart actually aches for him. Even Ben has noticed things are not right. What do you think is wrong? You know him even better than I do – what should I do that won`t have him scuttling over to Leinster Gardens, or a crack den, or something?

Sorry,

Molly x

To: dr_mollyH googlemail . co. uk

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld . co .uk

Subject: This is an order

Dearest Molly,

Don't be so bloody silly – you`ve obviously just lost your confidence. No-one knows the heart of Sherlock Holmes more than you do.

Just talk to him; I have absolute and utter faith that he will listen to you.

He is a lucky bastard to have you, and he knows it.

Do it today.

John x

P.S. If anyone I know was to manage doctoring on a front line, it would be _you_ (well, Mary too, actually – but definitely _you_. X)

**x0x**

Two years previously…

Named after a Nordic fire giant, Surtsey is a volcanic island off the southern most point of Iceland.

It was formed in a volcanic eruption which lasted for four years. Only one and a half kilometres in size, it is eroded heavily by wind, rain and waves. Much intense study was given to Surtsey by volcanologists, botanists and biologists, to monitor is slow re-colonisation of flora and fauna. Puffins, grey seals and orcas can now be spotted on an around the island and it was declared a World Heritage Site in 2008. It is one of the quietest and most isolated islands in the world, with only one, black wooden cabin perched in a sheltered bay on its southern shore for accommodation. Here, a shingle beach, littered with bleached driftwood and black, volcanic rock pools has rarely been privy to any human life, bar occasional scientific researchers, staying overnight when the weather was poor.

Five months after the birth of Benedict Holmes, this very cabin was inhabited for three nights by two Londoners who just yearned for such isolation and wanted nothing more than grey seals, puffins, and each other.

The sky was the brightest of blues, and a chill in the air was kept at bay by frequent campfires. The interior of the cabin was basic, but had a sturdy wood burning stove, woven rag rugs on the floor and scrubbed wooden furniture, made to ancient Icelandic design. A huge bed was covered with goose down quilts and rainbow coloured crocheted blankets. Surprisingly, Surtsey had excellent wi-fi connectivity so nightly _Face Time_ with Ben at John and Mary`s was also possible.

On their last night, Molly and Sherlock sat outside of their _very secret hidey hole_ and fed the flickering orange fire with dry, pale wood, and their faces with dense, black bread and very good Icelandic cheese from the mainland. Molly was muffled in a blue soft woollen scarf, wound several times around her neck; it was Sherlock`s scarf and it smelt of him. Her hands were warmed around a cup of coffee from the stove, and she watched the deepening glow of the sunset cast its golden fire across the waters.

Bar the day her son had been born, she had never been more happy.

Sherlock lay on the opposite side of the fire, poking it sporadically with a glowing stick. The smooth planes of his pale face were hollowed and shadowed by the dancing flames and cast of the sunset. He was watching Molly Hooper very carefully with his clear eyes – as cool and blue as an Icelandic stream, and he knew he had never been more happy in the company of another human being. She did not pester or make demands of him; she did not force opinions nor ask stupid questions. Molly tolerated his idiosyncracies, supported him when he needed it (even if he didn't realise he needed it, which was often) and listened. She really listened. She was fiercely independent, funny and – incredibly beautiful. She was a woman, and he knew less about them, but it truly wouldn't have mattered what she was. Man. Woman. Wolverine…

"Molly," as he spoke, Sherlock`s voice sounded slightly ragged and un-used. In that moment, he remembered they hadn`t said a word to each other for the past hour.

Another reason to love Molly Hooper.

"Molly."

"Sherlock." Her brown eyes glitter happily in the fire and the light of the sinking sun.

"You know that I have always enjoyed _controlled loneliness_. I like walking around the city alone. I`m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed…however, I did sometimes find myself afraid – afraid of having no-one to miss, or to love."

He shifts his weight on the shingle and reaches for another block of wood.

"When I was around eight years old, I wasn't having a very happy time at school."

Molly was listening very carefully. Sherlock Holmes was not a man who shared his past very easily.

"Other children didn't really – understand me – and, to be fair, I was a little bit of an _arse."_

They both smile.

"But, one day, my mother sat me down and told me that I _would _have friends one day, because people would see passed the more challenging aspects of my character, and they would find that there was something beneath worth knowing."

Waves woosh in over the shingle, then retreat, with a hiss.

"She said, `_someday, someone is going to look at you like you`re the best thing in the whole world_` - and I didn`t really believe her; not for a very long time."

More waves, and a crash of water onto some nearby rocks. The fire crackled and the wood smoke smelt like pine.

"But now, Molly, I _do_ understand what she meant, because that is _exactly_ the way _I_ look – at _you_."

And the sun sank down, deep into the inky, Icelandic sea.

**x0x**

The night that Sherlock Holmes told Molly Hooper than he had a half-sister was the first night he had slept in three. He lay, closely wrapped around her; arms, legs enveloping her like a human octopus. His sleeping face was mushed up against her shoulder, and as Molly lay, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, she felt sure there was – _drool_.

_A sister_.

A _Holmes_ sister.

_Another_ Holmes.

_The other one_.

It appeared, according to Mycroft, that whilst Miriam Holmes had been at a Mathematics Conference at Stockholm University in 1983, she, quite uncharacteristically, had a _very_ brief fling with another delegate at the conference – a man she had always refused to name – and the result had been a sister, born in secret, nine months later. Vernet, the boys` father, had accepted and forgiven his wife completely. His lovely and unquestioning love for her was never put to the test again. She had the baby girl immediately adopted, by a Swedish couple, and the `incident` was never again mentioned. Vernet never blamed his wife and she never insulted his forgiveness by bringing the matter up. Perhaps, inevitably, Miriam did suffer emotional trauma from a terrible loss she would never share. It was as if she was exacting a punishment upon herself, to make up for her husband refusing to do so. Repelled and disgusted by her lapse, and deeply mourning her lost girl, Miriam suffered from sporadic bouts of depression, which widened the distance between herself and her family. Sherlock and Mycroft were both sent away to school when they were eleven, and the rift was never mentioned, but was almost impossible to repair.

Miriam really did love her boys very much. She knew they were different – special – and was proud of their differences and aspiring brilliance. When she felt well, she was `_Mummy-before_` - baking, cooking, writing, playing – a real force of nature. When she became depressed, she was `_Mummy-after_` - distant, unfocused, lethargic and hard to reach. These episodes had lessened over the years, but the damage had been done.

The Holmes boys knew they were different from other children, but they never knew what had caused their mother to change.

Not until now.

Now they both knew.

As she listened to his soft breathing, Molly knew Sherlock would get passed this revelation. The moment he had told her, she saw him relax. She knew Miriam was a loving mother, who had just made one mistake. The real trouble lay in the secrets and lies.

Molly vowed her own little family unit should never suffer like this. Benedict would never have a reason to be emotionally stunted and confused. He would always feel love.

_Always._


	7. Stress Management

Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable`s hands are shaking as he picks up the shattered pieces of earthenware from the floor.

John sits up in bed, watching his room-mate.

"Dropped a cup – such a butterfingers. Go back to sleep, it`s only five."

"Are you ok, Thorn? You seem a little – _anxious_ at the moment."

John knew this was a massive understatement. His new colleague was a man on the edge. His hands shook almost permanently, he rarely slept through the night, he had even started shouting out in his sleep – odd words and garbled names.

"You expecting a call?"

Thorneycroft`s head abruptly looks up from his phone. John notices his eyes are huge.

"It`s just that you`ve checked your phone just about every ten minutes over the last twenty four hours. You seemed devastated yesterday, too, when you thought you`d lost your charger."

Thorneycroft`s expression hardens slightly and he replaces his phone on the bedside table.

"You`ve been watching me very closely haven`t you?"

John is sitting up, rubbing his face.

"No, God no. Sorry, just a habit I picked up – noticing things. I do know, from experience, it can be quite annoying."

His bunkmate relaxes slightly and shrugs apologetically.

"No, John, I`m the one who`s sorry. I realise my behaviour has been less than – amenable – for a room-mate. I – I`ve been a little agitated, it`s true. Troubles at home; a few problems that seem to be getting the better of me. I`m really not usually like this … I must be hell to live with at the moment…"

John Watson is swinging his legs out of bed and heading for the kettle. He does like Thorn, but he knows he`s not telling him everything.

"Don`t even think about it," he replies, "I`ve lived with _much_ worse."

**x0x**

Things, reflects Sherlock Holmes, are seriously spinning out of control, into an alternative and less than acceptable universe.

Lestrade, on his way back to the Yard to meet Sherlock, had been caught in traffic – _problem number 1_.

Molly, for some bizarre reason, had taken against Benedict`s nursery, and had removed him until they found another – _problem number 2_.

John wasn`t around – _very much problem number 3_.

Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister in Tunbridge Wells – _problem number 4._

All these problems then, have conspired together, resulting in the _final problem_, which was Sherlock attending a meeting at Scotland Yard with his son, who was clearly in an uncharacteristically bad mood.

There was obviously, very little in Lestrade`s office to occupy a tired and emotional two year old. Sherlock felt he had been more than reasonable with his son and offered several distracting options – he had even gone to the trouble of picking the lock of Lestrade`s desk drawers to find biscuits, but Ben had sobbingly refused them/crumbled them on the chairs and carpet.

Thus, Sherlock and his son stood, on opposite sides of the room, in what could only be described as a _stand-off_. And it was at this very moment that Philip Anderson chose to walk into the office.

Sherlock realised that problem number 5 was just around the corner, but he felt far too distracted to be able to deduce and poke fun at Anderson at that moment. Pity.

However, as Anderson`s eyes took in the scene, the usual expression of fear and disdain he reserved for Sherlock Holmes, completely dissipated.

"No sign of the Inspector, I take it." Sherlock`s tone was less than friendly.

"On his way – just – er – wondered if you could do with a – a bit of – help?" From behind his back, he pulled out – suprisingly enough – a toy fire engine.

"A visitor`s kid left this behind a few weeks ago – never came back for it. Can I – ?" He gestured towards the sobbing two year old.

"Oh, please – do your worst, since I already have."

Anderson smiled at Benedict, holding out the toy, like a talisman.

"Hey, fella, would you like to see what I`ve got here? You can play with it if you want to. I`ll share it with you…"

The crying slowed, then ceased into a marshy sniff, and Anderson was amazed to see blue, almond shaped eyes, exactly the same as Sherlock`s, staring, uncertainly, right back at him. He let Ben take the fire engine, then reached into his pocket.

"I wonder if you wanted to share this with me, too?" He pulled out a Kitkat, looking across at Sherlock for approval.

Sherlock was watching very closely, and truth be told, was slightly impressed. He nodded, slightly.

Ben`s eyes widened at the chocolate, since he knew he hadn`t long since had his breakfast, and access to this kind of contraband was something he couldn't afford to ignore (as it probably would never happen again).

"Yes, please." Sherlock felt a strange little tug in his heart as his son, upset and only two, remembered his manners.

Anderson broke the bar and held out a single stick to Ben, who, after looking at his father, took it. He then gave one to Sherlock and had the other himself.

"There`s one left." Ben pointed to the remaining piece of Kitkat.

Anderson sat down on the floor, Ben copied and so did Sherlock.

"Hmm," considered the policeman-turned-_Supernanny_, "who do you think should have it? Shall we save it for Mummy?"

Ben looked over his shoulder as the door opened.

"Nope," he said, sniffing back any residual tears as he chewed. "Give it to Greg."

And Gregory Lestrade cursed his lack of camera phone as he walked into what was probably the most bizarre picnic of his life, on the floor of his office.

An hour later, Sherlock is leaving Scotland Yard with a sleeping toddler laid across his shoulder. He passes by the desk of Philip Anderson and takes a moment to stop.

"I – er – was quite grateful for your help earlier." He speaks very quietly, only partly due to the sleeping child. "You seem to have quite a – knack."

Anderson shrugs.

"Hey, I like kids," he replies. "Probably not something you`d associate with me. He`s a great kid – you are lucky, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks at his life from Anderson`s viewpoint and feels the stab of a very un-used emotion.

Humility.

Anderson`s wife was long gone. Sherlock had also previously deduced that Donovan had new fish to fry, since she`d been seen out on numerous occasions with the odious Sanderson, who had covered Molly`s job at the Morgue when she had been seconded to Uppsala. Lestrade had also been very low key recently, Sherlock felt he too, had a romantic interest.

Anderson was lonely, and he was not a man who liked being alone. Sherlock realised that yes, he, himself was very lucky indeed, and a shred of sympathy reared up for Philip Anderson.

"You were very good with him. Thank you, Anderson."

Anderson affected a casual nod and smile, but knew better than to exhibit even a hint of shock in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

"No problem. Anytime."

And he smiles widely as he watches his _ex-nemesis_ exit, with his son.

* * *

**Arcoiris: You are correct, I feel, about passed/past - I knew it seemed wrong, but I should have double checked! Thanks, though, for heads up!**


	8. New Friends, and Old

Greg Lestrade looked again at the text and again, shook his head. Really?

_51°30′12″N 0°07′11″W__/ __51.5033°N 0.1197°W_

_SH_

Why the bloody mystery? Didn't he just have enough of those to sift through on a daily basis? Thank God for GPS and the internet. He imagined in the old days, a London policeman`s lot was not a happy one.

"The London Eye," he muttered, stepping into the cab.

The London Eye is the highest ferris wheel in Europe and adjoins the western end of Jubilee Gardens, on the South Bank of the River Thames between Westminster Bridge and Hungerford Bridge. The rim of the Eye is supported by tensioned steel cables and resembles a huge spoked bicycle wheel. It has 32 sealed and air-conditioned ovoidal passenger capsules which are attached to the external circumference of the wheel and rotated by electric motors. Each of the 10-tonne capsules represents one of the London Boroughs and holds up to 25 people, who are free to walk around inside the capsule, though seating is provided. The wheel rotates at 26 cm per second (about 0.9 km/h or 0.6 mph) so that one revolution takes about 30 minutes.

Sir Richard Rogers, architect, wrote:

`The Eye has done for London what the Eiffel Tower did for Paris, which is to give it a symbol and to let people climb above the city and look back down on it. Not just specialists or rich people, but everybody. That's the beauty of it: it is public and accessible, and it is in a great position at the heart of London.`

Impressive. Iconic, even, reflects Greg, as he pays the cabbie. But, he knew the Eye closed at 8.30 pm at this time of year and it was now (checking his watch) almost 9.30.

Looking up at the 135 metre structure, Greg saw, to his surprise, that it was fully lit and each capsule, bar one, was full of people in uniform.

"It`s Commons Night," came a quiet, female voice from behind him. "All the ancillary staff – cleaners, kitchen workers, security, from the House of Commons get a free ride tonight. I thought we might tag along – just for fun."

And he turns to see her – small, dark and delicate, like a blue-eyed pixie, dressed in a full-length puffa jacket and purple beret.

And when she smiles at him, he knows he`d be abseiling from the top of Big Ben if she` d suggested it for a date.

"Hello Sarah," he smiles right back.

London at night. The illuminated dome of St. Paul`s, the floodlit Mall and Buckingham Palace in its regal magnificence. Greg had seen the views many times, but never at night, and never with this girl. He was still in a state of disconnected reality about her. Day to day he went about his business – marshalling the troops, dealing with the Commissioner, fending off the press, corralling Sherlock Holmes, amongst other things – and then, his new and secret life; his life with Sarah Housemann.

Since the bust at the Night club, he had walked away with McCarthy in handcuffs and an undiscovered plain card in his coat pocket, with her name and number on it. He had found it later that night, and left it alone for days, fearing some kind of joke at his expense. Then, on the Tuesday, he`d had a particularly nasty day dealing with the murder of Jocelyn Blake, a paroled thief who`d been involved with the Emsworth & Dodd Bank break in. His bosses had lost a very valuable witness to a crime which seemed to have – connections. Greg sat alone in his office, and pulled out the card for what seemed the millionth time.

What did he really have to lose?

He rang the number.

The pick-up was almost immediate.

"Hello Gregory," came a slightly accented female voice, "how lovely to hear from you. Let`s have dinner."

And so they did.

Since then, they had met in various places, chosen mostly by Sarah, and usually taking in London landmarks. She was, clearly wanting to see the sites during her time in the Capital. All meetings seemed special and dream-like. They were the only people in the world and no-one else knew, or needed to. He felt that if he told, it would all shatter and fall away, like glass in a broken window.

So he didn't tell.

She was a student of some kind. He didn't ask, and she gave no details. She was amazingly intelligent and incredibly observant. She could solve the Times cryptic crossword in less than five minutes and gave extremely illuminating insights into some of the past cases he discussed with her.

At the Tower of London:

"He couldn't have been there to take the documents, Sarah – he was with his wife and family."

"They weren`t his wife and family, min älskling," she would smile.

Or, at The Barbican, after watching _Hamlet_:

"...a man with that degree of arthritis couldn`t have scaled that wall..."

"But, wouldn`t such soft earth mean he could have tunnelled under it?"

_Sarah_ was strong, passionate, beautiful and mysterious. She looks out over the city and a thousand lights from the top of the Eye reflect back into hers, and she smiles.

Greg Lestrade never stood a chance.

**x0x**

"Happy Christmas everyone!"

"Cheers!"

The multi-coloured fairy lights once more twinkle around the windows of Baker Street – only this time, they are upstairs at 221A as well. Even Skylab has some tinsel around the autoclave and glassware cabinets. A cheery fire burns in the grate, Billy wears a holly crown and Mary Watson has ensured that mistletoe is everywhere, for maximum mischief making.

Glasses clink and Mary checks her phone for the zillionth time.

Sherlock doesn`t even look up from assembling his son`s Meccano tower.

"He said two o`clock, Mrs Watson..."

"Oh, you - ! Yes, I know, but I am anxious to see my husband after he`s been away for nearly three weeks – I have _needs_... "

"Dear God, spare me - "

A cushion flies passed his head, narrowly missing the Meccano.

"There are almost permanent roadworks in the Aldershot Tunnel, and the Homeless Network tell me that a fire under Ander`s Arches has meant the emergency services have completely blocked the Rydall by-pass this lunchtime. Also, I noticed your petrol gauge was far from accurate last time I was in your car, so it is entirely possible that John is stranded – "

"Hallooo! I`m here! Merry Christmas one and all!" A very familiar voice resonates through the hallways of Baker Street, and Mary abandons the next cushion she was going to fire at Sherlock, and races down the stairs to greet her soldier husband.

There are a cacaphony of voices in the hallway, and Sherlock`s ears prick up. Molly, pouring a glass of wine for John, also looks up.

"Is that - ?"

Sherlock looks across at her.

"I think John has brought a guest for Christmas drinks this year."

After introductions have been made, Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable is made comfortable and given a very large glass of mulled wine by Mary. Molly has offered him a plateful of home-made cheese straws (hers) and a mince pie (Mrs Hudson`s) and he looks thin, tired, pale and immeasurably grateful.

"John said you were all lovely, and you are." He smiles at Molly as she passes him a napkin.

John has his arm around his wife and a glass in his hand. He couldn`t be happier, but feels he owes everyone an explanation.

"Thorn hadn`t anyone to go to today. He`s been having rather a tough time, so I thought he`d be better off here."

He looks across the top of Thorneycroft`s head, catching Sherlock`s eye. Molly catches sight of their shorthand and knows instantly – John hasn`t just brought a visitor, he`s brought Sherlock a new case.


	9. White Roses and Silver Bullets

"Yes, it really is such a shame, but my partner couldn`t get leave – they were posted to join the Peace-keeping forces in Sierra Leone, after the recent insurgence."

It seems, once he starts talking, Thorneycroft Huxtable can`t seem to stop.

"It was a good job we managed to meet up for a rall – festival, back at home last week, beforehand...anyway..." he looks around him, suddenly aware he`s the only one talking. Only Sherlock and John remain, and they are both listening intently.

"... it`s very nice to be here." Eyes down and sipping his second glass.

Sherlock Holmes is looking carefully at the Captain from beneath lowered eye-lids.

"What is `_Silver Bullet_`, Captain Thorneycroft, and who is blackmailing you about it?"

And the red wine falls to the floor, pooling like fresh blood across the carpet.

**x0x**

"I will replace the carpet – have it cleaned – I am so very sorry, Mr Holmes..."

John Watson is mopping with a slightly accusatory eye at Sherlock.

"Not your fault – _some people_ just love to drop the bombshell for a touch of the dramatic..."

Sherlock tilts his head, partly in acknowledgement, and partly with a `_takes one to know one_` vibe.

Thorn places his head in his hands and sighs. He looks very young and fearful.

"John warned me that you knew these things, Mr Holmes – you need to tell me how...I think I`m going out of my mind – "

_Previous Sherlock_ would have found this comment dramatic and a touch irritating in a client, but _Current Sherlock_ was truly working on his empathy skills.

"I think I can help you," he says, softly, causing John to stop mid-scrub and the Captain to sigh with relief.

"John emailed me with some details, Captain Huxtable – "

"Thorn, please."

"Thorn. _Silver Bullet_ was one of the less garbled phrases you would utter during your restless nights. Do you have any idea what it refers to?"

"I think I do – but, Mr Holmes – Sherlock – if I was to tell – "

"You would be outed as gay, and so would your partner, who is a high-ranking serving officer. Even in these enlightened times, you know this information could be career changing – even dangerous."

Thorn`s eyes are wide and his hands are trembling.

"I would go as far as to say that there are – photographs, or video, perhaps, since heresay would be inadequate for such exacting and effective blackmail. You went out of your way not to give him a pronoun, and you corrected `rally` to `festival`. There was a civil rights anti-homophobic and anti-racism rally in Brighton last week, which you discreetly attended, with him. Who would, after all, be attending a festival in December?"

John Watson`s eyes were not on Sherlock, but his new room-mate, who was transfixed.

"I happen to also know that only officers ranking as Major or above have initially been sent to Sierra Leone to set up bases there. Your partner would be a high ranking officer and therefore, more likely to publically scandalised. Admitting your sexuality is one thing, but if the photographs or video are particularly explicit, the damage could be irreversible."

"I won`t let it happen, Sherlock. The photographs are nothing terrible, but they are enough to damage Robin. I don`t care about myself, but he musn`t suffer."

"An admirable sentiment, but we must focus on the motive for such an act. What is the nature of the project you have been working on, Captain? Why has someone seen fit to target you in this way? Do not lie, and do not try to hide things from me, since I _will know_."

Before being recruited, Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable had earned a first in Computing Science at Oxford University. Massive developments were happening in IT on almost a weekly basis, and as security threats from Duqu to data breaches mounted, organisations needed IT professionals who could fend off malware makers and cyber thieves. He was head-hunted as a "cyber security" professional, achieving an excellent reputation in the field. Organisations' shift to _cloud _computing also spurred the need for infrastructure security professionals. By putting applications in the _cloud_, companies had more internet paths, and had to have a more security to control entrances and exits to and from their environments.

"We have, in the MoD, developed an unparalleled software programme which is potentially capable of breaking through the majority of current military security. Its existence is top secret, and any knowledge of it will be denied vehemently by the MoD, and associated organisations. It is still operating at a kind of _beta _level, but anyone who has this code will be able to break down most encryptions on any pathways and structures, including cloud."

Sherlock has almost a Mind Palace level of focus.

"_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king_."

John Watson`s head turns abruptly to look at him.

"You have to be kidding me – "

But Sherlock holds up a hand, allowing Thorn to continue.

"The name of the Project is `_Silver Bullet_` - cutting through powerful and impregnable systems with an almost supernatural effectiveness. Only, four weeks ago, I found that our programme had been hacked. The most powerful security breaker had been broken into – someone else had gained access to our code. I only knew because I had hidden special `_easter egg_` style pieces of code that no-one else knew were there. To most people, _Silver Bullet_ looked intact. I know that it isn`t. After that day, I was sent a copy of the photographs, and a promise that they, and the code will be sold to the highest bidder if I blow the whistle. Mr Holmes – Sherlock – I can honestly say that I have felt like ending it all … I either let my country down, or lose every chance of personal happiness."

Sherlock has his bare feet up on his chair, knees under his chin and a slightly inappropriate smile on his face.

"Oh, John, _white roses and silver bullets _– this is turning into quite the fairy tale."

John blinks, shaking his head.

"You think there`s a link – to the Emsworth & Dodd break in?"

"Lestrade tells me that Mr Jocelyn Blake was found murdered last week – as I predicted. No links back to the spider in the web. I have advised Pentonville to ramp up their security on his accomplice. I foresee a nasty fall on the stairway, or the shower."

"What happened at the bank was – "

"Compared to this – small fry – but it was practise, John, do you see? Someone was testing the _Silver Bullet_ system on the bank. It`s brilliant! Everything is always connected to something – just find those connections."

"So, what is your advice for Thorn – _your client_?"

Sherlock turns to the Captain, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Where are you and John going to next on the recruitment tour?"

"I – er – I think it`s Newcastle upon Tyne – the North East of England, at the University. January the third."

Sherlock is scrolling down his laptop, at the desk.

"I trust you to keep me informed of every single thing, Captain, no matter how small and inconsequential it may seem. Let me be the judge of what is important. I have three cases about to reach a conclusion at present and need to be in London. However, I will travel north if necessary. I`m afraid we have to wait your blackmailer`s whim for the next move. I feel sure a development is in the wind, though."

He slams shut the computer shut, smiles at the Captain, then shouts, rather unexpectedly, down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson! Can you make a bed up in John`s old room? We have a guest staying until the new year!"

Thorn is standing, shaking his head.

"Mr Holmes, there really is no need – I can go home to Brighton, or, John has offered to put me up – "

Sherlock smiles, but speaks with certainty.

"No. You will stay here. More room, and much safer. I want to be close by if anything – develops. Good – that`s settled then. MRS HUDSON! You really need to get up here – John has made a terrible mess of your carpet!"


	10. Adventures in Baker Street

Molly Hooper has just finished reading her son _Where the Wild Things are_ for about the millionth time.

"Night night, my lovely boy," kissing his curly head. "The wild rumpus is done for the night."

"_Oh please don`t go_ – " Ben`s little, tired post-Christmas voice is muffled by the covers, but it is part of their ritual.

" – _We`ll eat you up_ – " continues his mother.

"_We love you so_," adds Benedict, yawing hugely.

"_And Max said `no_!`" finishes Molly Hooper, closing his bedroom door.

With miraculous timing, her text alert pings. From Mary Watson. Hasn't she left but an hour ago?

`_A_ _Heads up for you, Mollster. You`ve got a gay army Captain, who is being blackmailed by a possible nemesis of your boyfriend, staying with you for the next week. Just letting you know in case there are any awkward meetings on the way to the bathroom. Assumed aforementioned boyfriend would probs forget to mention. Happy Christmas, you lucky gal! Watch out for the mistletoe and don`t forget we`re doing Marathon Murder route 8 tomoz. Luv, luv and Army Dreamers, Mary x`_

Ah, well. Never a dull moment at Baker Street.

Wait … Sherlock – _a boyfriend_? Molly just smiled and shook her head.

Later that Christmas night, Molly, assuming Sherlock would want to _talk turkey_ (though not _actual_ turkey – its resentful half eaten carcass confronted her every time she opened the fridge) with Captain Thorneycroft, is heading up to her 221A flat for an early night. It had been a long day and she had _The Hunger Games trilogy_ (a Christmas present from Mary) to make a start on.

She just has one foot on the first stair when a warm, firm hand lays its weight on her shoulder.

_Sherlock_ – God, he could make sneaking up on people a bloody Olympic sport!

"Oh! Hi, Sherlock. Sorry, didn't want to disturb you and Captain Huxtable – just assumed you`d have stuff to – you know – _discuss_…"

"Nope." His voice is deep and soft and even – ( _festively speaking, almost like the snow in `Good King Wenceslas`…_ )

And she saw that his eyelids were heavy, but the bright, clear blueness of his incredible eyes sparked vividly from beneath. He is wrapped in the blue silk dressing gown and a hectic pinkness highlights his usually pale cheekbones. He smells – just incredibly – him. Totally him.

Sherlock glances down at the book in her hand, removes it from her hand and throws it onto the second stair.

"Nope." He says, to the book, and steps a step closer to Molly. She can feel the heat of his body radiating out.

"I – er – and he is – in bed, then?"

Sherlock touches her hair, running his hand down its shaft, from root to tip – his beautiful, violin playing hand.

"Yep."

"Must be really – you know – _tired_ …"

Sherlock has twisted her silken shank of hair over to the other shoulder and is looking at her exposed neck like a recently awakened vampire.

_God._

She gives him a slow smile.

"Are _you_ tired tonight, Sherlock?"

And before he can form the word, Molly pulls down his dark head and kisses that perfect mouth in one, swift movement which takes even the world`s greatest and only consulting detective, by surprise.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," she breathes.

"Molly – " he smiles slowly, and pulls her so close as to be actually _inside _the soft, blue folds of the dressing gown.

"It really _is_ Christmas."

And the tiny, pearlescent berries of the mistletoe glow prettily above their heads in the comforting darkness of the winter night.

**x0x**

Molly`s breathing was heavy and ragged and despite the chill, beads of sweat stood out on her forehead.

_Marathon Murder Route no. 8_ was proving to be – murderous.

Along the Oxo Tower foreshore, passed the wharf and along the Southbank, Molly panted, a little way behind Mary on the cold, Boxing Day morning which saw most hungover post-Christmas revellers still languishing in their crumpled duvets, and gasping for a drink of water to rehydrate their pickled brains.

Thinking of which …

"Mary! Mary! Let`s pull over – water break!"

Both lean, breathing heavily on the railings which separate them from stone-strewn shore of the river.

"So, who died here, then?" pants Mary, taking the water from Molly.

"Security guard at the Museum where that forged Vermeer was kept. He knew too much – about stars."

They both contemplate the dirty, rubbish strewn bank of stones and mud. Not a good place to end your days.

"We move in some fairly murky circles these days, don`t we?" Molly resets her watch and stretches her hamstring in what she hopes is a professional manner.

"`_These days_` is a fairly relative term," comments Mary Watson, starting to jog.

"Oh, and Molly – " she throws out over her shoulder, as the pace quickens.

" – you are extremely _ploddy_ today – tortoise-like … you _so_ had sex last night, didn't you?" And her cheeky wave signals that no answer is actually necessary.

The Oxo Tower is a building with a prominent tower on the south bank of the Thames. The building has been redeveloped as a mixed use development called _Oxo Tower Wharf_, which currently has a set of design, arts and crafts shops on the ground and first floors as well as two gallery spaces. The OXO Tower Restaurant, Bar and Brasserie is located on the eighth floor, which is the roof top level of the main building offering fine and casual dining, and it is the entrance to this nineteenth century Art Deco building that is the setting for an unusually lazy universe to place quite a co-incidental sighting that defies all logic.

Molly is blindly staring ahead at Mary`s black jacketed back as they doggedly pound the Southbank walkway. Mary is quite the machine, with astonishing stamina, so Molly is surprised to see her glance right, pull up and turn to re-trace the steps back towards her. A blank faced Mary then circles her friend with an encompassing arm, turning her in one deft movement to face the river. She is panting and staring out across the dark and cold river.

Molly waits.

"Don`t look behind," is the only directive from the ex-assassinating, recently medical-training, mother of one.

A minute passed. Maybe two.

Mary cautiously looks back over her shoulder, whilst Molly`s little heart is hammering in her chest, without the provocation of marathon training.

And she breaks into a huge grin, and turns to her friend.

"Well, well – seems the whole world is _getting some_ these days."

"Mary – "

"I just caught sight of our second most favourite detective, coming out of the Oxo Tower with a very pretty, young, dark haired little creature. They looked very intimate, very _chuffed_ with each other."

"You mean – "

Mary nodded.

"Seems DI Lestrade has managed to get himself a new lady friend to mend his broken heart – at last!"

And they both smile conspiratorially and delightedly at such welcome news.

**x0x**

During the next seven days, John Watson calls in at Baker Street no less than five times.

"Leave them alone, John – what`s the worst that could happens? He`s with Sherlock."

Their eyes meet.

"Yeah, I kind of get your point," acquiesces Mary.

Day one:

John enters Baker Street and is instantly alarmed to hear a dulled thud, followed by a cry – which sounded a lot like Thorn. As he races up the stairs, another two successive thuds result in a female holler. John`s heart is hammering in his ears as he throws open the door to see –

"Beginner`s luck!" pouts Sherlock Holmes, standing next to the mirror and facing the dart board. His left hand is holding three darts whilst a grinning Captain Thorneycroft pulls his `arrows` out of what John discerns as the bullseye.

Mrs Hudson, also in the possession of three darts, stands across from Sherlock, poised for her turn.

"Hardly a beginner, Sherlock – the Captain here told me he was on _B Company_`s darts team from 2011 to 2013."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes a stance.

"Ah, I see - a _ringer_? We`ll see what you make of this – " and he takes aim.

"You might want to step back a bit, dear," confides Mrs Hudson in the direction of Thorn. "He really is rather _terrible_ at darts…"

Day two:

John enters 221B`s sitting room to find two dark heads bent intently over Sherlock`s lap top. His eye barely registers the five darts embedded in the wall, cow skull and lampshade.

"So – _this_ is Tumblr… Why is there so much of _me_ on it?"

Thorn clicks, scrolls and points.

"Fan-sites, Sherlock – these are set up by your fans, to follow your cases – to follow YOU …"

Sherlock peers closer, then draws suddenly back, then closer again.

"And, do tell me, Thorn, what I appear to be doing to John in this _gifset_?"

As John Watson pushes his way through various newspapers, books and, bizarrely, a climbing harness and a set of steel crampons, the Captain quickly scrolls and clicks again.

"But, there are also these kinds of blogs, Sherlock, which offer up cases for you to solve."

"I do that on a daily basis. For money."

"No, they _invent_ them, and other followers come along and offer solutions. They aren`t expecting _you_ to actually solve them, but your fans like to employ your methods – it`s a kind of compliment."

Sherlock`s eyes narrow as he scrolls down a blog entitled `_You Know My Methods_!", but John can tell he is – a little enthralled.

"Interesting?" enquires John Watson.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Elementary." He shrugs.

_Day Three_:

John and Mary Watson turn the corner of Northumberland and Baker Street and finds they have been transported back to Victorian, or possibly, Medieval times. Road works over the Christmas holiday have resulted in the far end of Baker Street being blocked to vehicles. This is rather fortuitous for Sherlock and Captain Huxtable, since they are both riding two large and intimidating shiny, black horses on opposite sides of the road. Cold air is snorting like smoke from the nostrils of the huge creatures and their hooves clatter loudly on the tarmac as Sherlock stands up in his stirrups, and shouts "CATCH!" imperiously across to his temporary flat-mate. He then flings a large piece of rope which connects two heavy looking balls with wild abandon, towards the Captain, who stands with a creak in his saddle and raises his arm.

"Left, left!" shouts Sherlock, and the Captain swaps over to his left hand.

The strange device propels itself wildly, using several laws of physics, towards Thorn – and then changes direction in a boomerang style motion, returning halfway back to Sherlock and wrapping itself around an unlucky lamp post.

"Oh my God! How bloody dangerous!" John is eternally grateful no passers-by are braving the late December weather and post-Christmas lull.

He glances at Mary to see her eyes shining and a rather inappropriate smile hovering across her lips.

"You mean, how bloody _sexy!_" She punches his arm. "Hey, Sherlock!" Mary shouts to over to the Baker Street Cowboys. "Are you and your bolas auditioning for _Game of Thrones_?"

Mary unwraps the South American weapon from the lamp post and hands it up to Sherlock Holmes, who is pulling in a very skittish horse which is showing the whites of its eyes at John, and stomping out an annoyed, clipped rhythm on the pavement. He and the Captain look exhilarated and high as kites.

"I have absolutely no idea what you are referring to Mary, but the Captain has been kind enough to assist me in testing out a case." He reins in the black beast, and dismounts, throwing the reins over to Thorn.

"Mrs Dolores Ferguson is off the hook," announces Sherlock, breathless and happy. "It is impossible for a left handed person to catch a bolas thrown by a right-handed person from the back of a 17-hand horse. She couldn't have killed her stepson. Let`s take these horses back, Huxtable, then we`ll have tea … Mrs Hudson …!"

And there are simply too many unanswered questions buzzing around John Watson`s brain to deal with.

Day four:

John Watson feels genuine trepidation as he mounts the familiar stairs, but nothing can now keep him away from checking up on the Captain and the Detective. A fascination, bordering on obsession, is growing and could soon manifest into his own _Tumblr_ Blog if he`s not careful. On this day, a third person had joined them, and John is a little surprised to see the slumped, cheerless figure of Greg Lestrade hunched in his old chair, whilst Sherlock and Thorn sit either side, both adopting a listening pose.

" – so Donovan isn`t much help – she and that Sanderson _tosser_ share every lunchtime, and I`m putting up with her starry-eyed, loved up smiles every afternoon. Sickening – "

Sherlock winces. "Quite."

" – and Anderson seems a bit too happy for my liking too. Hasn't even got time to come down to the pub of a lunchtime – says he`s bloody _babysitting_, or some crap. Anderson – babysitting? He`s more likely to bundle them in a sack and head down to the canal."

John could be wrong, but he swears he sees a slightly shifty look cross the face of Sherlock Holmes. Within a second, however, it is gone.

Thorneycroft Huxtable sits up and addresses the Inspector, with a thoughtful demeanour.

"How long since you last saw your girlfriend, Detective Inspector?"

"It`s been almost a week now, unheard of for us – and please call me Greg."

"For goodness sake, Lestrade, this isn`t the time to be coy with an _alias_ – "

"For the thousandth time, Sherlock, Greg is my REAL NAME!"

It`s now or never – John weighs in.

"Could someone just tell me - what is going on?" It looked, for all the world, like a lonely hearts advice forum.

Sherlock turns artlessly towards him.

"Oh, John, it`s all rather turgid, I`m afraid. Lestrade has found himself a girlfriend and become used to regular trips out and plenty of good quality sex, and now she appears to have lost interest – "

"Ah, Sherlock – "

Thorn is the very epitome of tact and diplomacy, thank God, since Greg`s eyes are looking a little moist.

"I am sure, since you have been getting on so well, the lady in question has a perfectly decent reason for being out of touch. Maybe she has a high powered job?"

"She`s a student," mumbles Greg, morosely.

"Perhaps, a student of astrophysics, who has been seconded to take part in an inter-planetary mission?" John cannot quite tell how serious Sherlock is.

"I think Sherlock is right – I`ve just been dumped. I knew it was going too well. She was perfect – so perfect."

Sherlock`s empathy face has run its course and he is currently scrolling through Tumblr.

"Impossible to live up to perfection, Detective Inspector. Best to end things now, before everyone gets disappointed – oh look! Someone has managed to solve my problem of `_The Crooked Plan_`! Good work!"

Thorneycroft has stepped across to look.

"It`s her again – look, Sherlock - `_yellow_ribbon_lady_`… she is by far the quickest."

Sherlock nods, smiling.

"She really is rather good."

Lestrade is looking up at them both with a defeated air.

"So, my despair and rejection can wait for another day then? Great."

Day five:

On the final day of Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable`s stay at Baker Street, John has had the good sense to text first and has mysteriously been advised to approach 221B from the rear entrance. And to wear `sports clothes`.

Hmm.

Thus, John approaches through the gate of Mrs Hudson`s back yard, where she keeps her bins and recycling. As he lowers the latch, he can see nothing amiss or out of the ordinary. Until, he hears a cry from above.

"John! John Watson! Up here!"

Oh, for God`s sake.

Sherlock Holmes is, at that moment, suspended from authentic looking ropes and harness attached to the very roof of 221 Baker Street. He is hanging by a rope which is being petered out by his _man on the ground_ – Captain Huxtable – in this case.

At that moment, Molly Hooper enters the yard, waves to John, and takes over the seconding from Thorn, who stands back, shading his eyes to look skywards at Sherlock. John can`t help but notice how she wraps round the rope, takes the stance and shows a great deal of confidence with the whole situation, for a tiny pathologist.

Molly Hooper keeping Sherlock Holmes grounded? Now, there you have the whole thing in a nutshell.

Before John can even speak, Mrs Hudson enters the yard from her back door with a tray of tea – cups, saucers, the lot.

"Sherlock, I hope those spiky things on your feet aren`t damaging my brickwork, young man! What are they even for?"

A voice shouts down.

"Crampons, Mrs Hudson – with these, an excellent purchase can be made in ice and snow."

Mrs Hudson looks around in the dry, grey December morning and shakes her head.

"Just watch out for my facia boards, Sherlock." She hands John one of the steaming cups.

"Just tell me _why_, Mrs Hudson," sighs John Watson, fixing on the crampons passed over by a smiling Captain Thorneycroft.

And before she can answer, a voice sails down to him from above:

"It`s for a case, John!"

And he must be content with that.

* * *

**"Where the Wild Things Are" by Maurice Sendak**


	11. Magpies, Motives and Mahogany

Sherlock Holmes is fairly pissed off.

He sits on a beautiful and extremely uncomfortable gilded chair in the wooden paneled office of his brother, in the depths of the white Georgian fortress that is the Diogenes Club. He has been sitting in _said chair_ for exactly seventeen minutes (nearing eighteen) and, as he is fully acquainted with the obsessive punctuality of Mycroft Holmes, he suspects he is being taught some kind of lesson.

In patience?

Mycroft already knows his limitations in that area.

As punishment?

Sherlock has refused to discuss his half-sibling with anyone since his discovery of her existence. In fact, to all intents and purposes, he has completely deleted the information. His mother`s lapse can do nothing to further his relationship with her and his father. Mycroft has found his behaviour `_childish and ridiculous`_, so no change there, then.

Sherlock looks around the stately room. The silence is almost an oppressive force which has the perplexing effect of irritating him further. Alongside the wooden paneling, weighty, rare and dusty looking tomes line the walls, and a thick, expensive looking Turkish rug both embellishes and insulates the floor from anyone daring enough to walk around without shoe mufflers. Mycroft`s frankly ridiculous mahogany desk dominates the room, with its expensive and wholly indulgent insidious gleam of power and intimidation.

He is ten seconds away from putting his feet up on it when the door (silently) swooshes open and in walks –

Anthea.

Anthea, holding a – _oh for heaven`s sake!_

The woman`s flawless face is illuminated by the light of a single, blue candle atop of a single, chocolate cup cake. The cupcake, Sherlock notes, is also decorated with Haribos.

He also notices that she has even resisted the urge to smirk as she places the offering down on the desk in front of him, softly adding:

"Happy birthday, Sherlock."

In a flick of shiny hair and Chanel No. 19, she is gone, crossing paths, at the door, with her boss.

Mycroft Holmes gives Sherlock and his cake a curt and tight twitch of the mouth, then takes his seat behind the mahogany barricade.

"Nice to see you`re still enjoying _playing forts_, Mycroft."

"Now, Sherlock, why don`t you blow out your candle, and make a wish?"

A moment passes.

"And yet, we`re still here," says Sherlock, his face completely unreadable.

Mycroft has tented his fingers and sat back in his chair. Despite the apparent air of _casual_, his eyes have taken on a gimlet-like focus and Sherlock knows the party games are over.

"Bartholomew Moriarty will not be so lenient with you this time, Sherlock. You should consider this when planning your next – _adventure_ – with Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable and his awkward little problem."

Sherlock mirrors his brother`s pose; he inclines his head casually. For all the world, they could be discussing their new double glazing.

"I thought we didn't negotiate with terrorists, Mycroft."

"WE don`t, but all your involvement can do is compromise our current monitoring of the situation."

"Perhaps your monitoring is less efficacious than you realise. One of your most talented and invaluable software engineers is being blackmailed to within an inch of his life, leading to ill-advised decision-making, bordering on the suicidal. He needs help, and he needs it now."

If Mycroft is aware of a degree of empathy resonating from his brother, he has more sense than to make comment. Sherlock had a tendency to exhibit an unpredictable and somewhat unmanageable side to his character at the most inconvenient times – his office needed to remain an oasis of calm in a turbulent world.

"Several agents, are at this very moment, working tirelessly to protect the reputation of both the Captain and his partner. Professor Moriarty, however, has not yet made it clear, through his agents, what it is he wants."

"Surely, he wants to unlock the Silver Bullet code breaker, rendering the MoD`s latest toy useless. Whoever his client is – "

Mycroft opens up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Yet, there we have it, Sherlock – _the Magpie_ has no known client for this software. He has, thus far, asked for nothing. It appears enough that we know he has tampered with it. He is risking his anonymity for no apparent reason."

Sherlock taps his teeth with the two forefingers he has pressed against his lips. He then reaches over and picks up his birthday cake, regarding the candle, almost burnt to the miniature blue plastic holder.

"There`s always a reason," he says.

And he blows out his candle.

* * *

**Arcoiris: Yes, I think it is hard to define exactly what Sherlock & Molly`s relationship is...whatever Sherlock thinks is probably always evolving and changing. `Window peek in stories` - I love that!**

**A/N: Can`t post rest of story for around seven days, as am away to a place the internet has not yet reached - argghh! Bear with me, for the rest will come after the 16th August!**

**Happy holidays!**


	12. Unpalatable Truths

Sherlock stands aside for an older, white haired lady, pulling her wheelie case along platform 18 at Kings Cross. She has brilliant blue eyes and a serious look of intent which evoke the shadow of a memory of Miriam – his own mother. As he steps aboard, he briefly wonders when he will stop being angry with her.

It appeared that _deleting_ wasn't always as successful in certain areas of his Mind Palace.

Irritating.

**X**

"Sherlock, darling, tell me who has done this to you! If you refuse, I will appear at your Master`s office, and I will be _monstrous_! Tell me!"

Miriam Holmes knows she should be packing for the Swedish conference, but she has caught her youngest, climbing in through his bedroom window (second floor – _shudder_!) with ripped shirt, filthy shorts and a cut lip, which was turning puffy in front of her very eyes. She knew Sherlock was not usually the boy who was invited back to friends` houses for tea, but this was an affront, an assault on her boy, and she wouldn't tolerate it.

Eight year old Sherlock jumped down from the window sill of his room, straightened his ragged shirt, and affected a casual walk over to the frog spawn experiment in the corner. His gratitude that his lovely mother hadn`t once complained about the pungent and marshy smell of his bedroom made his eyes swim with unshed tears far more than any punch in the face from Charlie Minnows (or any of his gang).

"Mummy, everything is fine." He saw that the control group of two-legged tadpoles had suffered catastrophic losses during the last four hours. Direct sunlight had maybe been their undoing.

Miriam knew when her son`s voice was unsteady, and this one of those times. She also knew Sherlock well enough to know that direct questions were only useful to an extent. She took a less confrontational position on his bed, smoothing the covers with her hand.

"Darling, I`m not going to shout at anyone – I know that you hate it…"

Sherlock carries on poking in the tank and she had to be content with his stiff little back.

"It – it`s just that some people don`t like to hear – things about themselves, even if they are true."

At this, Sherlock whips around, showing his swollen, bloody little face, but she keeps it together – for him.

"People should _always _want to know the truth! His mummy likes his sister more than she likes him. I could tell, because – "

"I know you could tell, darling, but this – this is what we call an _unpalatable truth_, and we, as humans, are rather averse to hearing them."

"`Unpalatable truth` - " Sherlock rolls the phrase around in his mouth, as if testing it out.

"But, if people don`t know what is truth or a lie, how can they decide what they think?"

Miriam looks up at her perfect, spectacularly brilliant and vulnerable _beautiful boy_ and she can barely trust herself to speak. Sherlock senses her struggle and walks across to her, sitting next to her on his bed.

"Are you saying, mummy, that it is better, sometimes, to be an _ignoramus_?" It was his word of the day, and he was glad of (another) chance to use it.

She takes a chance and steals her hand to circle his bony little shoulder and give it a little squeeze.

"Sometimes, my darling, people say that _ignorance is bliss_."

But she knows he doesn't believe her.

**x**

Seiga stares unseeingly out of the window as streets, buildings, roads, fields and houses rush by. The train carries her northbound, but she could just as easily be going to Outer Mongolia for all she knew, or cared.

Everything was now, _bara lite skit, _as she might say at home. No family reunion, no more lovely Greg, nothing but the work.

She was hugely angry with herself for ever thinking it was to be more than that, her life. Just stick to the rules; mind the parameters; don`t expect any more, and you`ll be fine. It was only when expectations were raised and you started to get greedy, that things went wrong.

She stared back into the carriage.

Look at the woman opposite, for example. Going up to Newcastle (Darlington, actually), hoping for a lovely time with her son and his wife and children. Seiga could see from the clothes, reading material, bag and rings of the lady that she wasn`t liked by her daughter in law and her son had no say in the treatment of his widowed mother. The grandchildren (a boy and a girl) followed their mother`s lead, and showed little liking or respect for their grandmother. A sad case of failed expectations and rejection.

Oh, _för Guds skull_! She was really wallowing now! Seiga knew she had made a mistake in letting in emotion and an expectation of a family she had never had. Mycroft had done his best for her, he really had. He owed her nothing, after all. She wondered, at times, however, if his help would have been so forthcoming had she not proved so useful in so many of his _projects_.

Enough! Focus! Sentiment had never done her any favours before. It was all about the work now.

Seiga pushes in the buds of her iPod and prepared to listen to her briefing again. This time she would concentrate. Lives were, as ever, at risk.

* * *

_bara lite skit_ - a little bit shit

_för Guds skull - for God`s sake_

**_A/N: Am back! Time to get things going!_**


	13. Strangers on a Train

Everyone else on the recruitment team had gone down to a fashionable little drinking venue in the Ouseburn Valley, just out of town, to unwind. John Watson, however, knew this could be a danger night for Thorn. Any benefit that an escapist week with Sherlock had given, had been dissipated in a single moment when the message had been passed to him during that morning`s interviews:

01110010 01100101 01110000 01100001 01101001 01110010 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100101 01101110 01100011 01110010 01111001 01110000 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01100100 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110000 01101000 01101111 01110100 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01110000 01101000 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 01110011 00101110 00100000 01110100 01101111 01101101 01101111 01110010 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01010011 01100001 01100111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110011 01100101 01110110 01100101 01101110

The slip of paper had seemed so innocuous, an application or review form, but the attached message was clear to a man with Thorn`s capabilities:

_`repair the encrypted code and photographs are yours. Tomorrow Sage at seven.`_

It was nearing five o`clock and a dark, January evening had slipped suddenly into night without any warning. John looked out of their student accommodation window over the cityscape – so different from London, yet also similar.

The river Tyne, reflecting the orange glow of street lights, and the traffic passing over it. Taking almost three years to build, the arched, green steel two hundred foot construction that was the Tyne Bridge reared famously over the river, joining north to south. The Millennium Bridge, the High Level bridge, The Stephenson bridge, The Redheugh Bridge – all in all, twenty two bridges and tunnels, spanning the Tyne and showcasing the North East`s industrial heritage.

Newcastle had afforded the team an excellent welcome. The people had been so friendly and up for a laugh. Any hope of anonymity for John had been blown away when some fans of Sherlock had recognised him from his blog picture.

"Howay man," a smiling Geordie had remarked, "ya wanna get your lad Sherlock to give wor lass a hand to find summat – "

"Oh, and what`s she lost?" Bantered Dr John Hamish Watson, good-naturedly.

"Her sense o` humour man, when ah came in _hammered_ last neet! Proper _radgie_, she was!" And much laughter had ensued.

But, since the message, and Sherlock`s assurance he would be on the next possible train, laughter was a distant memory from a foreign land.

Thorn raised his glass to his lips but John could see his hand was shaking again.

"How long till he gets here?" were the only words he spoke.

**x0x**

Sherlock lurches down the narrow passageway between the seats; there had been twenty two sets of points passed over since Leeds, and he seemed to have been standing up for every single one of them. Not having had time to book a seat, he had had to forge a migratory, gypsy like existence, changing from seat to seat when people alighted to and from the train. And the rubbish people left behind! He`d had to pick up newspapers, travel brochures and leaflets; even a child`s dummy and half-sucked biscuit, which _did_ serve to remind him of Benedict.

As the trained juddered again, he steadied himself with a hand on a rail which was, unfortunately, also being held by a middle aged blonde lady. He apologised as his hand momentarily covered hers.

She looked at him, speculatively, smiling.

"Divent yee worry pet – a`ll hold ya hand anytime."

Sherlock sighed. If he wasn't so intent on proving Mycroft wrong, this journey was proving more than regrettable. He carried on down the corridor, passing the buffet car without stopping.

Within a moment of Sherlock exiting the buffet car, Seiga turns from paying the server and misses his retreating form by seconds. She is hoping the train isn`t delayed. It appears she has a concert to go to.

"You sit doon here, me hinny," the tired looking old lady (grandmother of two, one boy, one girl) gestures over to Sherlock, who`s height and swaying coat are probably blocking out a lot of her light. "The lass who had the seat said she was off to get some coffee and wouldn't be back. She took her bag an` everythin`."

Sherlock sat down, gratefully, giving her a brief and intense glance.

"You might want to call your son to pick you up at Darlington. I suspect he may have forgotten the time of your train." He says, oblivious of her disbelieving stare and fumble in her bag for her phone.

**x0x**

* * *

**A/N: Newcastle is my home town, so forgive the indulgence (it is pretty brilliant, however...!)**

**`radgie/radge` - angry/mad**

**`divent` - don`t**

**`hammered` - a little inebriated**

**`wor lass` - my wife/girlfriend**


	14. Rendezvous

At its apex, the Sage Festival Hall is twice as high as the Angel of the North. At one hundred and twenty feet, is made up of 3,043 steel reflective panels, which have an area of nine thousand square metres, or two football pitches. The two thousand seater venue was designed by Sir Norman Foster and opened in 2004 on the Gateshead side of the Newcastle Quayside. As well as a wide range of international contemporary artists, the Sage is also home to the Royal Northern Sinfonia, (described by The Guardian as there being 'no better chamber orchestra in Britain') and regularly hosts visiting orchestras from around the world.

A unique and strangely beautiful structure, it resembles a giant, silver pod or shell, curving defiantly next to the river and reflecting the face of the city right back at it. Such an ergonomic design has been open to criticism (including the `giant silver slug` descriptor) but it is similar to no other building in the world.

"The acoustics of this building are unparalleled," remarks Sherlock, as he, John and Thorn scroll through the information on line.

"Tomorrow`s performance is the Royal Sinfonia playing Vaughan Williams – _Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis_ – " he pauses.

"You know it?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second and the music instantly floods through his brain.

"It is my mother`s favourite piece, " he says.

**x0x**

Molly Hooper and Mary Watson sit on opposite sides of the lab at Bart`s, picking at what could only be described as –

"Bird seed," comments Mary.

"Bird seed with added wizened fruits," adds Molly, dispiritedly.

True to say, they have not fully embraced `_The Marathon Runner`s Energy Booster diet_` and both are silently wondering if a giant Mars Bar would not do the same job in an infinitely more enjoyable way.

Sherlock had jumped on the train to Newcastle three hours ago. All Molly has received from him in the way of communication has been a single text reading:

`_Hell. SH_`

So, that was going well, then.

"Any more developments on your midnight conman?" Queries Molly, since Mary had previously shared her experiences on the Geriatric Ward.

"Not yet – might have a little word with Sherlock about it when he gets back. Is he still sulking about his unexpected sibling? I would have thought someone to water those two down a bit would have been more than welcome. She`s probably got three kids and works evenings at Tesco`s."

Molly`s mouth is twitching into a smile, but she knows how tough Mary is on the subject of family ties.

"I feel for him, Mary; he kind of thought of his mother as a saintly paragon – she loved him and Mycroft so much."

"She still does, silly. People don`t change because they made a mistake. She just had a bit of a breakdown at the time. Vernet has forgiven her – so should Sherlock."

Molly has pushed the bird seed to one side and is checking in her purse for vending machine funds.

"Oh, he will, I expect. Do you really think she works in Tesco`s? Could a semi-Holmes be just ordinary – ?"

Mary opens her mouth to answer, just as a downcast looking DI Lestrade enters the Morgue. Molly gets promptly up and goes over to her case notes on Jocelyn Blake, the murder victim from the White Rose case.

"Simple, Greg. Sniper bullet to the temple. Instantaneous death."

"Professionally done," sighs Greg Lestrade. "Not a clue to set us on the right path. Just for once, " he adds, sardonically.

Molly and Mary exchange glances. Mary gets up, in her white coat and walks across to him with her lunch.

"Why don`t you take the weight off with me and Molly for a bit and share some bird seed? A problems shared is a problem we can dissect and all make judgements about – _whadayasay?_"

**X**

"She was around fifteen years younger, petite, dark and beautiful and madly brainy? Wow, I kind of see why you`re moping a bit, Greg."

Molly offers him a Quaver (the vending machines were out of Mars Bars) and tries to make up for Mary`s lack of tact.

"She`s just disappeared into the ether? Not even a surname, just Sarah?"

"Sarah Housemann. I`ve googled her and – er – employed a few unorthodox methods to trace her, but there is absolutely no trace. I just keep going over and over what happened on that final date, but it was just brilliant - to me anyway."

He glumly rustles around in his jacket pocket, pulling out his phone.

"I`ve still got the pictures here – only of me and the scenery at Covent Garden. She`d never be in any of them. Camera-shy."

Mary frowns.

"Sounds strange. Let me have a look." She takes the phone and scrolls through around six or seven pictures. On the fifth, she pauses, then returns to it and shows the other two.

It showed Greg himself, standing a little shyly in front of a huge window at the Covent Garden arcade. The sun was bright and the glass very reflective.

"I think I see her – just look at the reflection of her taking the picture. It's the girl I saw at the Oxo Tower."

And Molly Hooper slowly takes the phone from her friend and zooms in as far as she can to see a pair of sunglasses, dark waves and a rare smile.

"I think I may have met your girlfriend before, Greg," she says, looking at the hint of yellow ribbon in the curling hair.

"But it was in a city far, far away from here."

**x0x**

In a city not so far away …

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are having a little bit of a disagreement in the lobby of one of Europe`s leading classical music venues.

" – all I`m saying is, why not just use the main stairs, watch from the balcony and I`ll take the other stairs – "

" John – from the human traffic I`ve been observing through here all day (_don`t ask how_) I know that at least six `maintenance workers` have been through the main foyer. No actual scheduled maintenance work has been listed on their website, nor are the windows due to be cleaned, and I`m wondering why."

Captain Huxtable has been texted further instructions to enter the main auditorium on the uppermost level after everyone else has been seated. He has ticket A115. He has to email the section of repaired code to an address he has been given and when his blackmailer is satisfied, he will be told where to find the photographs. Once he has them, it is uncertain what his next step would be. Even with the repair made to the code, the Captain can very easily alter _Silver Bullet_.

"But, if he`s found a way into it once, he could very possibly do it again."

John and Sherlock watch their visibly tense client pacing around fifty feet beneath them, on the main concourse. It is ten minutes to seven.

Sherlock is looking beyond him, through the acres of glass paneling and into the darkness of the Newcastle Quayside. Bars and revelers light up the side of the river (and despite it being early January, very few of them are wearing coats); some are crossing the Millennium cantilevered bridge, which can rise and fall for large shipping. In the distance, he can see St. James`s Park Football Ground, home of legendary Newcastle United, and St. Nicholas`s Cathedral, with its famous flying buttresses, where others come to worship in quite a different way.

"Something isn`t quite right here," he mutters.

John faces him.

"Mycroft knows all about this, doesn't he?"

"Yup."

"Told you stay away – or else?"

"Ah, yes."

"And yet, here you are."

"That`s right."

"Possibly in the same space as the Professor`s _customers_ – "

"Mmm."

"The same Professor who threatened you, and everything you hold dear, the last time he saw you and nearly made you jump off a Cornish cliff?"

Sherlock looks at his friend.

"Now, that does sound a tad risky … are you up for it?"

"Totally."

Sherlock grins and his blue eyes crinkle in genuine joy.

"C`mon then!" he says.

**0x0**

Oh, this is just a little bit not good.

John sits up very slowly as the sickening lurch subsides from the pain in his head. He can see very little, but knows he`s in some kind of narrow duct – the kind used for ventilation or electric cabling. It`s just large enough for his sitting, but he` d have to crawl on his hands and knees to get out. Little patches of light behind and beyond illuminate his hand enough to see there`s blood on it. His blood. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop the dizziness for a moment.

You bloody well wanted this John. You, with a wife and a son and _responsibilities_ – you knew what could happen and you just couldn`t stay away from Sherlock Holmes and his bloody, sodding _Boy`s Own Adventure Club!_ He angrily felt his head wound again – it was just superficial, but the concussion would just serve him right – if he got out alive.

Most bizarre of all, besides the claustrophobic semi-darkness and crushing fear of potential death by an unstable psychopath bent on revenge, were the hauntingly beautiful strains of Vaughan Williams` _Fantasia on a theme_, seeping up in swathes of melody through the ducts.

Sherlock was right; the acoustics in here were bloody brilliant.

**x0x**

Greg Lestrade, Mary Watson and Molly Hooper have caught Mycroft Holmes on the back foot.

This very seldom happens.

"I really don`t much care for `_national security_` at the moment, Mycroft." Molly Hooper stands and folds her arms to his left as he sits in his brother`s chair.

"I care even less," adds Mary Watson, quite truthfully, to his right.

"And I just want to know what has happened to my Sarah," completes Greg Lestrade, standing directly in front of the man who IS the British Government.

Mycroft sighs. He really doesn't have time for this, since he has quite a few more pressing issues to handle at present.

"Very well – if I can limit the length of this impromptu conversation in any way possible, let me bring you all `_up to speed_.`"

He shoots them a microscopic grimace, masquerading as a smile.

They watch.

"Miss Sarah Housemann is, in fact, an agent of the British Government who undertakes assignments for us as the need arises. Although she had English parentage, she was adopted at birth and brought up in Sweden, by Swedish parents. They gave her the name of Seiga Härbärgera and she has worked for us since 2005, when I first became aware of her existence. She worked at the University of Uppsala two years ago to keep a watchful eye on your safety, Doctor Hooper, and your unborn child. I fear, Lestrade, she rather let her guard down upon making your acquaintance, and whilst she became genuinely attached to you, any relationship would have severely compromised her position. And, of course, mine."

He looks around at his ensemble, and realises they have, literally, been struck dumb.

So, he adds:

"Seiga Härbärgera is also the half-sister of myself and Sherlock, and is currently working, without his knowledge, alongside him, on a mission for the well-being of Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable and the on-line security of the British Defence Network."

Mycroft brandishes his umbrella and stands to his full height.

"So, dear people, I do hope you will excuse me, since my siblings will most probably soon need my back-up, and I feel my presence would be better used elsewhere. Kiss Benedict for me, if you please, Molly. Goodnight."

And he nods a further goodnight to Mrs Hudson on the landing, as she stands, agape, with a tray full of tea.

**x0x**

He is lying in the cottage garden, in the grass that hadn't been cut for weeks, since his mother was growing `_a wild flower meadow – for the bees, darling!`_ Tiny creatures scuttle about next to him, around him, and fat lazy bees drone overhead. Clearly, they were enjoying the effort made for them. The kitchen window was open in the July heat, and Vaughan Williams drifted faintly out into the summer`s day, filling the blue sky with an overpowering feeling of peace and stillness. He could lie here all day – he could lie here forever.

Blades of grass tickle Sherlock`s face and he flinches. The grass is soft and warm; he is warm. The meadow flowers smell like a delicately balanced combination of honeysuckle soap and lavender shampoo – odd that toiletries would spring to mind. Then, Sherlock knows he is dreaming, because the ground is starting to move – undulating like living, breathing thing. Through the music, the earth is murmuring sounds and noises; forming words … words that say …

"Sherlock, Sherlock – wake up, you must wake up!"

And his eyes flash open as he realises three things:

The music is real – and loud and close

He is tied and captive in a darkened, overly heated room; with a _banging headache_

He is tied, very tightly, to a small and insistent woman

_Here we go again_.

"Are you awake? Are you hurt badly? _Fan!_ I just can`t get a good look from here."

In an instant, Sherlock realises something else –

He is tied to his sister.

* * *

**Arcoiris: Great to be back! Cheers. :)**

**Guest: lol - to be sure! To Sherlock, hell is other people, and being trapped with them can be nothing more than torture!**

**The Sage: This is a real and amazing venue in the North East of England and is totally unique - very iconic**


	15. Team Lock

Of course Mycroft would have recruited her. Of course. The voice was Swedish and the build was slight; the dark curls he could see from the corner of his eye were identical to his own. Molly in Uppsala had a very interesting lab partner – and guardian. Mycroft was a belt and braces kind of man; he would have to had made sure his nephew was protected from all sides … an additional thought strikes him –

"You`ve been very busy solving puzzles on _Tumblr_ this last week. I hope you`re still wearing your yellow ribbon, Seiga."

She twists against the bonds, but they seem impossibly tight. She needs to see his expression. These are the first words her youngest brother has ever spoken to her, and his tone is as flat and as calm as if they were sat in an office.

_Impressive._

"Call me sentimental, but I wanted a point of contact with you, somehow."

He tenses his chest and arms against the webbing (?) they are tied with (and handcuffed, for good measure, it would seem) but the whole effort just makes them even hotter. They seemed to be in a storage room near to a boiler, or heating system of some kind.

"I would say, be careful what you wish for, since points of contact are no longer lacking."

They both stop writhing at exactly the same time.

"We really have to work together on this," says Sherlock Holmes. As trust-building exercises go, if he didn't know better, he`d suspect Mycroft had engineered this.

"The only entrance or exit to this room is up there – " Seiga gestures with her dark head to a hatch in the ceiling.

" – and we won`t make it through as Siamese twins."

"When I say `stand`, lean against me and push up with your legs – "

Several, sweating moments pass and their combined strength allows them to be standing, back to back, but still tightly bound.

"Sherlock," pants Seiga, "I know we`ve just met, but I need you to twist your face around approximately 45 degrees, and bite into my pony tail – "

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but he`d heard worse.

"What am I expecting to find there?"

"I don`t just wear a yellow ribbon in my hair, _min bror_," she smiles.

**x0x**

Captain Huxtable is pushing, blindly against the tide of music lovers exiting the main concert hall. He has in his hand a very important set of photographs, and he should feel calmer than he actually does, but he has lost all contact with John and Sherlock. Both their phones are dead and as he strains to scan the encroaching crowd for a single familiar face he is struggling to bite down a rising sense of panic.

_From a frying pan into a fire?_

The huge public reception area of the Sage rises up in a mirrored glass curve over his head, reflecting his own, white face staring upwards. And as the Captain watches the tops of a hundred heads swarming around him, he glimpses a white hand waving to his far left, at the edge of the reflection.

Looking back into the real world, he finds himself looking at the waving arm and smiling face of a young, impeccably dressed woman, in a black dress and patent Laboutins. She approaches him, almost casually, through the throng.

"Captain Huxtable," purrs Anthea, "we have a car waiting, please come with me."

And tightening his grip on the photographs, he follows her, weaving through the crowd.

**X**

John is struggling. He has been crawling for what seems like hours, and there literally is, no light at the end of the tunnel. It`s as hot as midday trench diggiing under an Afghan sun, and a heady mix of blood and sweat is dripping down his collar. He left his jacket miles (?) back and someone – probably the man who hit him – has already relieved him of his shoes and socks. By the distinct lack of music, the concert was obviously over and the finish of a muffled, rapturous applause had told him the audience were starting to leave the building. What the hell was going to happen when they locked up for the night?

**X**

Miraculously, Sherlock has extricated a sharpened sliver of metal from the pony tail of his half sister and is holding it between his teeth, like a miniature cutlass. Despite (or perhaps, because) of the highly stressful situation, Seiga gives a brief snort of laughter.

"Mycroft said you wanted to be a pirate. Here, drop it carefully into my hand." Her palm was facing upward as close as it could be, and Sherlock lets it fall.

She catches it, deftly and immediately begins to saw at the webbing.

"You do three minutes and then pass it to me. That would be the maximum time before tiredness reduces efficiency. I can do five."

"You`ll find I can do five, too, Sherlock." She replies.

**X**

"After three, we tense and push – focus all of your energy on the tear in the webbing."

Seiga sees the sweat dripping from the only part of his face that she is able to see, and can feel it glistening on her own.

"One – " they both take in as much air as possible in the stifling room.

" – two – " She feels his biceps tense and harden, and does the same.

" – THREE!" And all the power they have left is combined to force the tiny fissure apart.

Seiga`s arms are burning when she hears a sudden, tiny pop, and the webbing bursts open, freeing them.

They both fall, still connected by handcuffs and propelled by the stored kinetic energy, into an ungainly heap onto the floor and lie, panting for a few seconds of bliss. Then, both leap up as Sherlock attempts to unlock the handcuffs.

Less than fifteen seconds. Seiga is silently impressed as she looks at her youngest sibling for the very first time.

In the flesh.

And he is looking right back at her.

"Were you frightened that you would hate me?" Asks Seiga Härbärgera.

"No," replies Sherlock Holmes, "I was frightened that I wouldn't."


	16. Into the Labyrinth

Cramped, hot, claustrophobic – the air ducts stretch out ahead of them. Sherlock touches something wet on the walls, something dark in the half light.

_Blood._

"We`re not the first to pass this way."

_John._

Sherlock tries to pick up the pace, but conditions are not good and the grating they`re walking across is making mincemeat of his bare feet. His only comfort is a growing admiration for the woman behind him, who has not made one utterance of complaint. She appears to have inherited her mother`s strength, no matter who her father was.

Sherlock looks behind to check her progress, not seeing the large piece of metal his foot has managed to make sudden and very painful contact with.

He sits suddenly and abruptly, gritting his teeth against the pain and breaking out into a cold sweat.

She is immediately next to him, kneeling to assess any damage.

"är du okej?"

But Sherlock is suddenly smiling up into the darkness at the ladder he`d stubbed his toes on, reaching up as high as they could see.

"Dags att gå upp i världen, lillasyster," he murmurs.

**X**

Captain Thorneycroft turns his precious cargo around in his hands, sitting in the leather and walnut luxury of the Daimler`s back seat. Then, his eyes widen and he taps frantically on the glass separating him from Anthea and the driver. Her doe eyes turn on him, the smile still in place.

"Problem?"

"On the back of one of the pictures," Anthea`s eyes tell him she knows all there is to know, but he shows her anyway.

The writing is in mauve ink and executed in an excellent hand.

"I think it`s a riddle," he offers, quietly.

**x0x**

Up and up and the air is cooling, and by the time they reach the top of the thirty metre ladder, it is even possible to remember is is January, in the North.

Sherlock`s hand touches the trap door, expecting to force his way out of the belly of the Sage, but the opening yields with no effort, banging backwards and letting in a welcome blast of icy air.

And the slightly bloodied hand of John Hamish Watson reaches in to find his.

They both pull Seiga out onto the curving silver roof of the Sage, one hundred and twenty one feet from the pavement below. An biting north wind takes their clothes, buffeting them wildly around their bodies, and sends their hair whipping around their faces.

The outside never felt so good.

Standing, they look across to the Newcastle side of the river, where lights and welcoming traffic noise tell them they are still a part of the world.

John glances at his friend, formulating around fifty questions he needs to have answered, number one being –

"Sherlock, aren`t you going to introduce me to your – _accomplice_?"

She is dark, blue eyed and finely proportioned, and –

Looking directly at him.

"The light in your bathroom isn`t working properly," she comments.

Oh, good lord.

John sticks out his hand.

"Welcome to the family," he smiles.

And, thinks John, any moment now, one of these two genius`s is going to tell me how we get down from here.

**x0x**

Of Moriarty`s customer, there is no sign, nor any sign of Captain Thorneycroft, but amazingly, their phones are waiting for them at the customer services desk inside the main entrance of the Sage. If the member of staff (badge name `_Helen – ask me about music_!`) felt any surprise about three barefoot, very windswept and slightly bloodied visitors passing through, she didn`t mention it. Perhaps they were just used to people being just a little tougher up north.

Sherlock has over fifty messages, and the moment he switches it back on, it rings.

"How are you, brother of mine? Busy, having some _family time_?"

"Just shooting the breeze, Mycroft. Have you made contact with the Captain?"

"Captain Thorneycroft and his unique photo gallery are as safe as houses, Sherlock. I am just ringing to pass on a message. I do know how much you love riddles."

"I hate riddles, as you are well aware."

"Quite, now listen carefully, since I feel that time is of the essence."

And Mycroft reads:

`_My first is being given_

_What I`ve already got._

_My second is joining_

_The haves to haves-not._

_My third is beneath you_

_My dear, so aloof._

_My fourth is protection_

_And fighting my truth._

_My last for my Empress_

_My Indian Queen_

_The Pressure of Millions_

_Go rushing - unseen.`_

As Sherlock ends the call, `_Helen – ask me about music!`_ interjects.

"I`ve something else for you."

And, in the style of bowling alleys the world over, she hands them over three pairs of black Nike training shoes. Attached to one of them is a mauve-inked note:

_`Just do it.`_

_BM_

_**x0x**_

Three heads, one fair, two dark, huddle over the phone, to where the riddle has been texted. Three pairs of feet wear black Nikes (all fitting perfectly) and three brains are buzzing for clues.

John suspects that one _Mind Palace_, at least, is in overdrive.

"Being given what he`s already got? Something someone already has? Maybe they don`t need anymore...?"

"Something taken somewhere where there is surplus..."

"Think! We know this!"

"Sherlock, _you_ may know this, but I don`t have a Mind Palace – more of a _coal shed_ – "

Sherlock knocks the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Of course! John Watson, Conductor of Light! You are _brilliant_ – that`s it!"

"I am? What`s _it_?"

"_My first is being given what I`ve already got_ – coals! _Coals to Newcastle_! The saying that means you`re taking something to a place of surplus! Genius man."

After that, it was if a light bulb had been switched on, and was gradually illuminating the rest of the room.

"So, coal being taken to somewhere into the city – to Newcastle, from the outskirts...by a method..."

Seiga takes the phone and looks closely.

"Sherlock, it`s obviously a tunnel – look, "_My third is beneath you...my fourth is protection...the pressure of millions go rushing unseen..."_ Millions of gallons of water! A tunnel that transports coal and offers protection."

A pause. Coggs whirring...

"`Fighting my truth...`" Sherlock is pacing in a small circle.

"O-hh! Yes! During a war – _the_ war! Not just coal, but a safe place for PEOPLE! `Protection` - as in air raid shelters!"

More pacing.

"Excellent ... it must be so ... and who is the _Indian Queen_, John? _The Empress_?"

"Well – Victoria, of course!"

Enough time has now past for the Sage to have almost completely thinned out into employees and a few late leavers.

"Something..." he is muttering. "There is _something else_ I saw yesterday... on the train..."

He stops, dead, and stares into the curved sheen that is the wall of the Sage and into the city darkness beneath, unseeing.

"Is this his Mind Palace?" Whispers Seiga to John Watson, who nods.

"We also call it `_showing off_`, but it seems quite effective – unless you happen to be diffusing a bomb."

She looks at him and smiles. "Mycroft told me how much you love him."

He puts his finger to his lips, but smiles back. Then –

"I know where we`re going! I know where he is – " He rushes over to poor Helen, who has almost given up all hope of them ever leaving.

"Leaflets – tourist brochures? You must have some in here – where?"

She points.

Within seconds he is back.

"John, put this postcode into your GPS – _NE1 2NP_." He holds up a leaflet extolling the virtues of the Victoria Tunnel, a subterranean waggonway built in 1842, under the city and under the River Tyne.

"Can you both run? We`re going underground!"

**x0x**

Molly Hooper holds the soft, aged hand in hers and looked into the bright, blue eyes of Miriam Holmes.

_A mother_ – just like her.

_A worried mother_ – just like her.

A woman who loves Sherlock Holmes – _just like her._

"Miriam, darling, do drink this darjeeling Mrs Hudson has prepared. She mentioned something about a `_herbal remedy_` - "

Sherlock`s mother looks up at her white-haired, calming _rock _of a husband and smiles a grateful smile.

"You are a _darling_ man," she whispers, "the very best of them."

Mycroft has been texting regularly, but all Molly can do is recall the night on the Cornish cliff top, two years ago. The night Bartholomew Moriarty told Sherlock that he had to wait on top of the stack until someone loved him enough to make him stand down.

She wished to all the powers that existed, that a similar wish would bring him back from this danger.

"I never forgot her, Molly, how could I?"

"You couldn`t. You haven`t." Her hand gripped tighter.

"I let her down."

Molly shook her head; grim Molly.

"Sherlock won`t let her down, Miriam," she said.

**x0x**

As an icy droplet of water once again finds its way down the shirt collar of John Watson, he vows his travelling-through-enclosed-spaces days were coming to an end.

For good, this time.

The Victoria Tunnel had been accessed via an entrance on Ouse Street, and used in the Second World War as an air raid shelter when the bombs were falling on the busy shipping yards of Newcastle. Thus, tonight, it was accessed (illegally) again by three panting and sweating Londoners who had run the one and a half miles from the Sage in the freezing January air.

"I wish to God I`d been out with Mary a bit more on the marathon training," pants John, gathering his breath as another shiver ran down his spine. It had been a hell of a day. With an extra serving of hell on the side, just waiting for them around - the next bend?

The Victoria Tunnel was approximately seven and a half feet high and just over six feet wide. A perfect circle of bricks and clay was illuminated by regularly placed neon uplighters and a cold, fetid atmosphere dulled their footfalls, yet heightened their senses.

"Theseus," whispers Seiga.

"Minotaur," whispers Sherlock, simultaneously.

John, at their rear, shakes his head. As bizarre as this evening has become, the fact that his friend is now stalking a criminal mastermind with his SISTER was absolutely mind boggling. Mary was going to have to be sedated before he shared this latest development.

He steps up the pace for a moment and catches up to Sherlock, touching his shirt sleeve and pulling him into the wall.

"That is exactly what this is," announces John, in a whisper of cold air.

Sherlock scrunches his face, displeased with being stopped.

"What is?"

"This – little jaunt. Into the bloody labyrinth, walking into some _very mean bastard_`s trap. We are really needing a ball of string right now, Sherlock..."

Sherlock is looking impatient, tapping his borrowed footwear.

"Sherlock...he will kill you. Us. Your sister..."

"A trained agent. You are a trained soldier. I am – prepared to deal with this." He looks with dark eyes in the muted neon glow.

"There is something else at work here, John; things are not as they seem. We have been lured here – "

"I can see that."

"No." He sighs into the curving, seemingly endless, wall.

"The shoes – they have inbuilt trackers, the riddle, the whole MoD-Silver-Bullet-Captain-Huxtable photograph scandal – all part of a bigger plan."

John is angry and steps closer until they are nose to nose.

"Any. Time. You. Want. To. Share...?" His teeth are gritted and he is only partly shaking from the cold.

"We have _children_, Sherlock – "

It is then that the _Wild Rumpus_ really does begin...

A slow rumble comes erupting from the dark tunnel – from all directions, a simultaneous clunking, rumbling, whirring and clanking builds until the entire tunnel is alive with the ear-shattering sounds of approaching ... _coal trucks?!_

"NO!" Yells Sherlock pointing upwards as panic lights up the eyes of his fellow tunnel dwellers. Simultaneously, Seiga jumps up and dislodges a speaker from the tunnel roof.

"It`s for the tourists – " She starts to say, just as an ear-splitting scream cuts jaggedly through the air – an air raid siren which negates all attempts at speech and needs hands over ears and crouching into a curled ball of pain...

Then –

A haunting and lyrically beautiful theme of a string orchestra starts to build.

A very familiar theme fills the Victoria Tunnel.

Vaughan Williams` _Fantasia_ – only recently the soundtrack to their last escape from the Sage.

Mournful strings take the theme to build into the powerful crescendo which coat the cold dripping walls with the sound of a thousand strings, moving as one, unfolding a tale of passion and longing. The power and enormity of the sound coming in so suddenly lifts them up and transports them, almost trance-like, through the damp walkway, deeper into the earth and beneath a thousand gallons of rushing water. The music pushes them forward in an almost inevitable acceptance.

_This is what I wish._

_This is what will be_.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Dags att gå upp i världen, lillasyster** **- time to go up in the world, little sister**

**The Victoria Tunnel exists and is still explored by tourists today**.


	17. Origin of Species

Anthea leans and whispers into the ear of her employer. It wouldn`t be the first or last time she has done it, but her under-used heart is racing more than it ever has.

Mycroft Holmes merely nods, curtly and a grey ghost passes over his face as he reaches for the telephone.

**x0x**

John feels the restraining hand first, and before he can even think of revolver retrieval, he is disarmed, seated and watched by a man who would not offer second chances. It is done so swiftly and deftly, he has no time to utter a single sound.

Sherlock has barely time to register the warmth of another human body behind, when the same arrest is given to him.

Only Seiga is untouched and can move forward...until she stops dead.

A little way ahead, in full view of all, are a set of war-time bunk beds, a small desk and two chairs, with a tiny lamp illuminating the desk itself.

But not the person seated at the desk.

All that is visible of him is a well-proportioned and impeccably suited body. Sherlock sees the well-manicured hands of a man who pays others to get their hands dirty on his behalf. Seiga sees a golden signet ring on the third finger of his left hand with a single engraving.

A magpie.

The right hand raises, imperically, and clicks once, stopping the music instantly.

"Mr Ralph Vaughn Williams was a great nephew of Charles Darwin." The soft and hypnotic voice fills the sudden gap left by the music with a more chilling sound – barely audible, but impossible to ignore. Like air slowly and helplessly escaping from a leaking valve.

"Such a beautiful and evocative swell of sound; almost God-like. Biblical Creation of all species verses the Darwin Origins of the same. One can see how our Victorian ancestry was unable to fully embrace the ape when faced with the beauty of the Heavens...Please, Ms Härbärgera, place your weapon on the floor and take a seat. I really want to chat with you, and my eyesight, according to Mr Holmes` blogger, is that of a `_possum`_."

Seiga pulls her _Tokarev TT-33_ from inside her jacket and places it on the ground. John`s eyes are wide. She really IS a British Agent. What was wrong with a family having lots of teachers, or doctors, or even barristers in their midst? Careers advice at Chez Holmes must have been limited.

"And Sherlock, Doctor Watson - how nice you could drop by again. I have recently heard so many nice things about you both." Bartholomew Moriarty`s fingers drum, relentlessly on the desk before him.

"I have missed you, Sherlock, since our Cornish conundrum. I was so very cross with you when I lost Sebastian; so very _piqued_. But, now, I am ashes where I was fire. I have so much more to share with you."

"I must thank you for my son`s birthday greetings," Sherlock speaks in a dead, cold voice, his breath rising in the night air.

"Ah, yes. Such a wonderful thing, to see how your _gardens grow_. Little Mary, quite contrary, with Sholto, and Dr Hooper and the bewitching Benedict – all your sons. Your _species._ What is our role, but to further our origins, to procreate. My excellent brother James would have been more than surprised to see you with a child, Sherlock. He would have wanted to play with both of you – "

"You haven`t brought us down here to play, Professor Moriarty. You don`t want the MoD software – you just wanted to show us you could take it anytime, and you wanted us to follow you, like a game of _Grandmother`s Footsteps_. Every time you looked over your shoulder, we would stop, but you would turn and carry on, knowing that we would always be a step or two behind. You provided lots of entertaining fun for me – you even went to the trouble of tying me to my sister because you knew there was more chance of us getting to you together than apart. So, now we are here, what is it we can do for you? What could we possibly give to the man who has the keys to all the locked rooms on the planet?"

The drumming has stopped, but the man does not move.

"I hope you enjoyed the majority of the concert, Sherlock – the part you were conscious for anyway – "

Sherlock feels, rather than sees, him smile.

"You grew up with that music, after all."

John sees a confused look pass momentarily across Sherlock`s brow. A bit not good.

"Sherlock, you are so, so clever; such a clever boy for your mummy. Always a worry, but always loved. What a lucky little boy to be so secure in his mother`s love."

He shifts in his chair, his face still hidden.

"But you don`t quite see it yet, do you? I do always enjoy our little meetings, but I must confess, it isn`t really _you_ I want to see today, it is little Seiga, here."

She speaks, for the first time, her fine brows drawn down like penciled punctuation.

"As much fun as I am having, Professor _Skata_, I am at a loss as to what you would want from me..."

A single sound escapes from Sherlock, causing his guard to reinforce the firearm at his temple, and John Watson to observe his expression.

Wide blue eyes, open in shock – in realisation?

_He knows something very important._

"I want nothing from you, my Swedish _brytare av hjärtan, _except a _choice_."

Seiga is confused, and looks around at her newly-met brother. She does not like the expression she sees there. Oh God, what was this about? Was it a case of Russian Roulette with a loaded gun? A game where she would lose everything? How had she let Sherlock bring her down here, and where the hell was Mycroft?

"No, no, little bird. I really don`t want you thinking I want you to hurt your family. I am a great believer in family – _the ties that bind_ (I hope you enjoyed my little joke when I tied you up with your brother). All about the love, the loss, the heartbreak – the choices we have to make. Sherlock here is tragically on the side of the angels – very boring, I`m afraid. I don`t kill him because I want him alive, to play with – family fun, if you will..."

"NO!" Cold steel next to his face can`t fully quieten Sherlock.

"I am adopted, Professor, I have no real family who want me."

"No, no, not true – you have a mother who hid away, but she mustn`t be blamed – no, no blame. You also had a father – you still do."

Now, John Watson feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck and he is unable to tear his eyes away from his friend. Sherlock`s head hangs down, hands limp at his side; he is murmuring something, to himself. What is this – Sherlock doesn`t _do_ despair?

And Seiga Härbärgera looks back from the slumped form of her brother to the shadowy figure, who is now getting to his feet, and stepping into the light –

Although fully expecting it, John still gasps aloud to see the face of _Frisbee Sommersby_, otherwise known as Professor Bartholomew Moriarty, emerge from the gloom. His once dark hair greyed and silvered but his haematite eyes glittering in the cold fluorescence.

And Seiga knows she is looking, for the first time, into the eyes of her father.

* * *

**A/N: I know! You all saw this one coming, but not Sherlock - his ego wouldn't allow it! What to do now?!**

**_brytare av hjärtan_ - breaker of hearts**

**skata - magpie**

**Frisbee Sommersby is an alias used by Professor Moriarty when Sherlock first met him in my story `The Case of The Devil`s Flower`**

**Thanks all for lovely reviews! (Arcoiris - he IS scary because he`s SOOO changeable - just like his brother! :))**


	18. Choices

**London, April 1984**

**St Charlotte`s Maternity Hospital**

A sheen of sweat was briskly wiped from the face and neck of Miriam Holmes by an efficient but kindly midwife, by the name of Sarah Housemann.

The labour had been mercifully short, if painful, and Sarah Housemann suspected the tears leaking from the bright blue eyes of her patient had less to do with pain, and much more to do with sorrow. She knew a baby, any baby, should not be born into a room infused with sorrow, but what was she to do? The situation was pitiful, by anyone`s standards; baby conceived from a brief affair and up for immediate adoption. The couple, from Uppsala in Sweden, were waiting at that very moment in the waiting room around the corner.

Brutal? Or kind?

Sarah didn't know, but she did know a fair bit about humanity, and she knew what a human being should do in this situation. Looking down at the tiny, dark haired scrap of life, squirming like a ball of energy in the bottom of the cot, she lifted out _Baby H_ and made a sudden decision. Wrapping the tiny girl tightly in a flower sprigged blanket, she carried her slowly over to her mother`s side.

Miriam`s face was turned away towards the wall.

Her baby daughter squirmed and wriggled in the blanket, almost waving:

`_Here I am! I`m alive! Look at me – see me!`_

"Miriam – "

"Take her away!" Her voice was raw, desperate.

"She`s going soon – very soon. I just want you to say goodbye to her – I know, from years of experience that you will regret it more, Miriam, if you don`t say it."

"Please, I can`t – "

Tears leaked from her scrunched up eyes, seeping through puffy and stinging lids; a salt water river of hopelessness. One night, one mistake – she would pay back for this for the rest of her life. The only right thing she could do would be to make it up to her boys, to Vernet. She would never stop making up for this; showing them she was a mother – a real one.

The sounds of snuffling and tiny baby squeaks flicked open a memory rooted deep within her brain. Nine years ago, Sherlock was born. William, they`d said, but that never really suited his astonishing personality. The same noises, the same exhausted dragging down of her shattered body, but this time it was with a crushing sense of loss rather than the joy of what she had gained. When Mycroft and Sherlock had first looked at her with the indigo eyes of the newly born, she had instantly loved them – instant and lasting. She could have lasted a lifetime loving them from that first look.

_Lasting a lifetime, from a single look._

Miriam Holmes opened her eyes and slowly turned over in her bed …

**x0x**

Anthea laid the transcript out before Mycroft Holmes. It seemed his brother had managed to keep a mobile line open.

"From beneath the River Tyne?" Enunciating every word with a not so hidden _bite_, Mycroft had reached his last nerve, and everyone was getting on it.

"It seems an advanced booster signal is being employed. Very illegal."

"Naturally." His tired eyes scan the transcript.

"We are unable to move, or act, it would seem."

"It would, sir. At present."

"Ah, the Professor did always like a _power play_. Normally, I would find this charming, but presently, my attention is a little – _frayed_. Is the line still open?"

"Your brother is clearly doing his best."

"Ah, Sherlock – now it appears to be your turn to be the `_big brother`."_

_**x0x**_

Bartholomew Moriarty had always been a very popular lecturer in his days as Professor at Durham University. Aficionados of the type of pure mathematics he specialised in were enraptured by the low, quiet and hypnotic tones. The man who had mapped out `_The Dynamics of an Asteroid_` and expanded understanding of Binomial Theory to the masses was almost the rock star in the halls of academia. People queued to listen.

And thus, it still was so.

A captive audience is, perhaps, not a fair test, but he was certain the eyes and ears of this little subterranean entourage were all his, at this moment.

"I have always known we had a bond, Sherlock. There was always something between us, even before Jim started his games with you. Now, you know why I wanted you to appreciate the love of family – "

Sherlock is looking up directly into those dark eyes.

"Strangely," he returned, "exhibiting love for his fellow man never did seem so high on Jim`s _to-do list_. Far too busy, strapping _Semtex _to blind old ladies."

Cold steel in his eye line could no longer quieten the outrage of John Watson.

"Are you telling me that this whole crappy, stomach-churning, heart-breaking, torturous roller-coaster ride has been your bloody prelude to a SODDING FAMILY REUNION? Have you even heard of Facebook?"

Cold, lizard-like black eyes almost sparkle in amusement. Sherlock`s glance says:

_Shut up. Give him nothing of yourself. _

"Doctor Watson, new father and diligently loyal friend. Loyal through death, murder, dishonour too, it would seem…"

_Flick my face and I will kill you._

"… you must understand, Doctor – I lost my brother, my closest help-mate and I really needed to gather in my family, at long last."

"I am not your fucking family," Seiga`s eyes are hollow with sorrow and disbelief.

"If they told me _Adolf Hitler_ was my family, I could not be more disgusted than I am right now."

This does serve to ensure a flicker across the face of Bartholomew Moriarty. Then it is gone.

"A pity, since I could not be happier with the way the genes have fallen. I assure you, and have proof, if were needed, that you, Seiga, are my natural daughter. DNA tests – all that…"

"And what? You expected me to run into your arms? `_Hello, Daddy! It has been forever! Let`s go and have an ice cream and play on the swings! Let`s play murder!_`"

Moriarty is sitting, perched on the front of his desk, contemplating his reluctant offspring. Looking at them both, Sherlock and John are in little doubt he is telling the truth.

_My mother; my lovely, naive, idiotic mother… Is it any wonder James Moriarty and I shared so much? We are linked, irrevocably through what we recognise in each other. We would have found each other in the end, however long it took._

He glances into his shirt pocket. The phone was still live. Mycroft would know all by now. Even Sherlock was sure his brother hadn't known before. He would not have put his head into the mouth of _this_ lion.

"Well," Sherlock knows that strong, beautiful Seiga is crying, twisting her face away and he speaks all the louder to affect a modicum of privacy, however brief.

" – this has been – _illuminating_, but I must question your motive, Professor. Are you attempting to expand your Christmas card list, or did you want to recruit the more than adequate talents of Ms Härbärgera to fill in the gap left by Mr Moran?"

Moriarty has a `glad you asked` air about his immaculate person as he stands and turns to his daughter.

"The question, my dear, is more of a statement. Seiga, you are unique, talented, lonely and in need of someone who could make your world so much better to live in. I need you to think very carefully, and allow for the shocks you have received tonight – so, _välja sida, Seiga, välja sida_."

**x0x**

The darkness is shocking and all encompassing. It`s suddenness is so explicit that it momentarily feels, to Sherlock Holmes, like death.

Then it feels like _life_.

_Mycroft._

Dropping to the floor, he knocks the legs from his guardian, seeing the blinding flash of his firearm illuminate the tunnel momentarily. Starbursts still richocheting as corollas around his eyes, he wastes no time, tucking and rolling in the direction of his sister`s chair.

It is empty.

Then his open hand brushes against a small clenched fist in the pitch black. For a single, brief moment in time, Sherlock`s hand closes around that angry, tiny fist, then it is wrenched away in a hot gesture of shock, horror and rejection.

_And he has lost her._

Feet are stamping around, shouts and expletives are in ... four languages.

Sherlock scrambles, crab-like across, grasping the wrist of John Watson. He`d know the outline of that Seiko anywhere. And John doesn`t need any kind of instruction, since he knows his friends methods so well, he can apply them himself.

_Run._

A voice he may or may not recognise yells for a cease fire, since blue flashes have been breaking up the solid wall of darkness ever since the black out. But Sherlock will not stop. He cannot risk any more collateral damage for John Watson and his family. His own family would have to find her own way. Her empty chair and clenched rejection already told him that she had.

Within four minutes, Sherlock decided the Professor had not wasted time or man power in following them. It seemed he already had what he came for. His hand was still around John`s wrist as he pulled them both into a side wall.

"No," panted John, "don`t stop!"

Sherlock pulls the phone from his pocket and puts it to his ear. All he hears is crackling, then –

" – we`re coming to get you..."

* * *

**`välja sida` - pick a side**

**Sorry about all the angsty stuff everyone - promise more cheery vibe tomorrow!**


	19. Loose Ends

_I've been trying to do it right  
I've been living a lonely life  
I've been sleeping here instead  
I've been sleeping in my bed,  
I've been sleeping in my bed …  
_

_So show me family  
All the blood that I will bleed  
I don't know where I belong  
I don't know where I went wrong …_

_Ho, hey – The Lumineers_

**Four months later...**

Heading into the final leg of the race, she had passed The Tower of London, rising historically out of Tower Hill. The penultimate mile along The Embankment, and the London Eye had emerged into view, before she turned right into Birdcage Walk to complete the final 352 m (385 yards), catching the sights of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, and finishing in The Mall alongside St. James's Palace. The day was bright, blue and breezy, so perfect for the London Marathon – for any marathon, _for anything_. Molly Hooper could have lied and said she felt knackered and _destroyed_ as the end was in sight, but in truth, she was on one of the biggest highs of her life. Bobbing rhythmically in sea of red, yellow, pink, blue (_was that a giraffe?_), Molly actually grinned with a huge surge of endorphin-infused love for her fellow runner – her fellow man … sod it, for all of MANKIND!

"The surface of The Mall is coloured red to give the effect of a giant red carpet leading up to Buckingham Palace. It was the decision of David Eccles as Minister of Works from 1951 to 1954, to do this."

Sherlock Holmes` aversion to crowds has been utterly forgotten as he actually _mingles_ with the thousands of others on the finish line at Constitution Hill.

"Really, Sherlock?" Mary is astonishingly polite, and craning her neck.

"Ben, can you see your mummy from up there? Can anyone see Molly?"

"My mummy is running a _race!_" Benedict is almost puce with excitement, sitting atop his father`s shoulders and waving a flag.

The flag says `RUN MOLLY, RUN!`

"This colour was obtained using synthetic iron oxide pigment from Deanshanger Oxide Works which was created using the Deanox Process devised by chemist Ernest Lovell – "

"Sherlock, you are going to have to stop," whispers John Watson, "or she will _take you down_. Now, look out for the _love of your life_ crossing that finishing line."

Which, has the effect of silencing him immediately.

A man spits what seems to be the entire contents of his lungs at the feet of a running Molly Hooper, who is in such a euphoric state, she merely jumps over the pool of phlegm and continues, apace. Clearly, _Molly`s Marathon Murder route planner_ has paid off and she was due to cross that line with over two thousand quid in sponsorship towards the roof on the new wing at Bart`s. Sweating, heaving bodies to the left and right; Molly`s group had closed in and she felt an almost womb-like comfort from the wall-to-wall bare arms, legs and smell of embrocation.

Thud, thud, thud, thud … feet along the red mall – the red carpet leading them to the prize. They were winners – they were _all_ winners.

"Did you also know that the road of Constitution Hill obtained its name in the 17th century from King Charles II's habit of taking `constitutional` walks there?"

Mary looks at him.

"Yes," she says, deadpan, then attaches her eyes to a pair of binoculars (_God knows from where_) and continues to scan the crowd for her friend.

John steadies Sholto on his shoulders and steals a look at _his _friend.

"Hey, _Wikipedia-Boy_, what`s happening here with you today?"

Sherlock, despite having a two year-old`s hand across his neck, manages to carry off an aloof expression as he gazes deep into the throng of runners, undulating towards him.

"I think you can see, quite clearly, John, what is happening, besides my son attempting to seal off my windpipe. I am watching Molly complete her first marathon. She has trained admirably, eaten correctly and deserves every success. I feel confident of this success."

John snorts, startling his son and alerting Greg Lestrade, who is approaching the viewing party with a camera and a bag of popcorn.

"Uhhh," groans Sherlock.

Social gatherings? Not his division.

"You are shitting it," drawls John Watson, hoping Sholto doesn't repeat that particular verb within his mother`s (excellent) hearing range any time soon.

Sherlock winces, but John knows he is listening.

"You`re worried that you`ve let your family down, by losing Seiga – "

" – Sherlock," John is closer, and allows Greg to lift his son from his shoulders and bribe him shamefully with popcorn.

"Sherlock, it wasn't your fault."

Sherlock is affecting his Easter Island face, but still listening.

As Anderson approaches, John`s first reaction is annoyance, since his friend was sure to break away from their exchange to swap barbs with his nemesis, but –

"Anderson!" Benedict squeaks from his father`s shoulders and waves madly at the approaching detective.

"My mummy is running a race!"

Philip Anderson nearly gets a flag in his eye as, to John`s astonishment, Sherlock lifts down his son and passes him, without comment, to the man he used to taunt.

Anderson gives the most human smile John has ever seen, and helps Sherlock`s son clamber onto his own shoulders without a second thought.

"Hey, Ben, did you see the Diplodocus?"

"Yes! I love him – he is _big!_"

"What do you call a plated dinosaur when he is asleep?"

"Adunno!"

"_A stegasnorus_!"

And Benedict laughs the laugh of a boy who has no idea about a punchline, but loves the whole idea of a joke.

John shakes his head a couple of time and raises both eyebrows at his friend.

"What," he whispers, "have you done here?"

"A reciprocal arrangement combined with a rather surprising and enchanting discovery. Anything else? You are clearly dying to – "

"Sherlock, you have a sister – "

"John, my mother had sex with a – "

"Brilliant man – at the time, that was all he was …"

" – a brilliant man, and a baby happened. I know this. You know this. Look at _us_, for heaven`s sake."

The crowd is roaring its pleasure as familiar faces pass the finish line.

"She is real, Sherlock, she is a person and you knew her. I would go as far to say as you actually liked her – "

"She – she was … someone I _recognised_…"

John breathes, pauses and adjusts the timbre of his voice. He needs to be gentler with Sherlock, really, much gentler these days.

"Has there been no sign - ?"

"Nothing."

"Not even with Mycro – "

"Nothing."

A pause. A thousand feet stomp the final 365 yards down the Mall. _Thump, thump, thump … feet stamp, hearts beat …_

"It doesn't mean she went to him – "

Sherlock turns, his beautiful eyes are narrowed and cold, his shoulders hunched in the April sunshine.

"John," he breathes, almost a whisper, "I don`t care."

He looks down, turns on his heel and strides towards Anderson, Lestrade, Mary, and , _oh, good lord_, Mrs Hudson, who had arrived with what looked suspiciously like a picnic basket.

John looks across at his stiff back, the Belstaff almost clanking, Transformer-like, into armour, around his body.

"Yeah you do," he murmurs to himself.

**x0x**

Considering the hugely diverse cocktail of people collected on the finish line to cheer on Molly Hooper, it was nothing less than a minor miracle that the triumphant day ended in an impromptu picnic in St. James`s Park. John Watson astonished all as he produced two magnums of Moet & Chandon, and Mrs Hudson sealed the deal with a vast array of Rice Krispie cakes and cucumber sandwiches.

"What, no crocodile?" grins a sweaty, red-faced Molly Hooper, impressively swigging from a magnum with one hand. Mary nudges Sherlock, who is intently watching Lestrade across the clipped green crocus filled lawn.

"Look at her – she is a _powerhouse_ – twenty six miles and ready to party!" She smiles, sweetly, at him. "Who knew?"

Sherlock doesn't flicker, and glances round slowly at the mother of his child.

"_I _knew," he says.

The day is surprisingly clement, and the grass so dry, Sherlock, Mary and Molly lie on the ground under a vast, flowering cherry tree – it`s blossom so delicately pink beneath a forget-me-not sky. The sounds of shrieks and squeals seem very far away and absolutely nothing to do with them. Molly`s legs and arms are no longer hers, but cotton wool limbs, floating on a mattress made of candy floss. _Blissful_.

Sherlock watches wispy white clouds float soundlessly overhead, each one morphing into strange and interesting shapes; a volumising flask, a kendo helmet, a scimitar, a carrion bird?

"I visited Bart`s last night," he murmurs, to no-one in particular. "You were both absent."

"I was asleep with my husband and a sweaty two year old."

"And I thought I was asleep next to _you_, Sherlock – "

"No."

It appeared that a Mr Hosmer Angel, conman and general _scallywag,_ had been pirating his way through the quiet night time geriatric wards of St. Bart`s, persuading the vulnerable to part with their life savings in return for faked life assurances or protection schemes for their families.

"The very vilest and lowest of the sewer rats," spits Sherlock Holmes, with some considerable disgust.

It had, therefore, been more than amusing when he spent several hours at the bedside of _Miss Wendy Windibank_, a rumoured eccentric millionairess, who had made her family fortune from an invention that trapped and freed spiders without harm to either party.

Mary was up on one elbow. "How so?"

Sherlock had his eyes closed, but something close to a smile hovered around his mouth.

"_Miss Windibank_, at the right moment, did reveal herself to be our favourite crack-den habitué, Wiggins, who gave Mr Angel such a fright, he ran straight into my arms and confessed his appalling deeds."

"Oh, Sherlock, you never said a word – I never heard you go or return!" Molly is now also up on one elbow.

"Oh, I can be elusive when I need to be. Monies have been returned, and one of your patients, Mary, has donated £500,000 to the roof fund in my name," he opens his eyes.

"I may be in for that Knighthood yet."

Sherlock rolls onto his stomach and once again locks eyes on Greg Lestrade, who is in the process of throwing a frisbee, very poorly, at Anderson, who is missing it on purpose, and rolling around the ground, much to the squeals and delight of a couple of two year olds. And Mrs Hudson.

"Well done Sherlock." Mary pats his dark, wavy head, but he barely notices.

"I love to wrap up the loose ends. Just one thing is still bothering me – "

The two women follow his gaze, then look awkwardly across at each other. Champagne fuelled or not, Molly feels she may actually be able to read Mary`s mind at that point.

"Lestrade`s disappearing lady friend," continues Sherlock Holmes, cupping his face in his hands on the verdant carpet beneath him.

"Whatever _did_ happen to her? As uninterested as I am in his romantic liaisons, I am also annoyed we never tracked her down."

Molly and Mary shuffle awkwardly in the watery spring sunshine, following his gaze as the Detective Inspector jumps, rolls and mock falls to the delight of their children.

"Ah, Sherlock, Sweetie," murmurs Mary, innocently, "maybe some things are better left un-done."

**x0x**

His mouth is on her mouth, they turn and change position, and this remains a truth.

"You`d think," breathes Molly Hooper, "I`d just collapse and sleep – content I have raised 2.5K for my place of work."

Sherlock kisses her neck on the left side –

"And yet – " (_deep and quiet_)

He kisses it on the right –

"Here. You. Are."

She is above him – _hmmm… that`s a very good view, and she`s seen a fair number of good views this day._

Sherlock pulls her towards his face and breathes deeply into her hair. _Strawberries,_ always… but, _what is this_ - ?

Molly Hooper pulls apart from him and sits up – oh, her _thinking face_. Maybe, postulates Sherlock, _that_ could wait until tomorrow …?

"Sherlock, I was given a bag when I passed the finish line today…"

"Mmmm," he traces an _S _upon her back with his finger, "a medal, an electrolyte drink, a women`s deodorant, a cereal bar, a gym membership offer, a list of up-coming marathons and triathalons …"

"Ah, yes, that was the gist of it, my fantastic, beautiful, amazing – "

"Molly – "

She turns and sculpts her hand gently around his cheekbone.

"Always shuts you up – anyway, at the bottom of my bag, I found something rather personal, to me … to you … to us."

He stops tracing and sits up, level with her, in his double bed.

"Tell me."

Molly reaches down, under his bed and pulls up a single, sealed brown envelope with his name written on the front in scratchy black pen.

_`Sherlock Holmes, c/o Molly Hooper`_

Sherlock takes it, rips it and lets its contents fall on the sheet between him and _the love of his life_.

A single yellow ribbon, and a tiny slip of paper, containing a tiny message.

`_SH to SH … family x_`

And he smiles a secret smile.

* * *

**A/N: That`s NOT all, folks - final instalment tomorrow!**

**cornishrexmomm - thank you so much - very much appreciated**

**Arcoiris: She could be an insider for him - a very interesting idea. Could you get past the master criminal thing if it was your father? Hmmm...**

**Morgen: I know! Traumatic for a while there - and I like your blemish on the painting analogy. It was hard to make a crack in their family unit (weird, but strong, I think) but more unity could come from this in the end. I do agree that the universe does throw these genius types together more than average - they tend to orbit each other`s worlds. **

**Guest: - I love a regular up-date! Thank you so much for the support!**


	20. An Open Letter

**To Whom it May Concern:**

I didn`t love him … oh, goodness, as if the word _love_ could be ascribed to an encounter of such brevity and superficiality.

It wasn't love.

It was _more_.

Looking into those darkened eyes, I saw _myself,_ reflected – day, after day, after day… I saw a person I could have become had I not encountered Bartholomew Moriarty. I saw it, and I didn't want it.

He made me feel as if I had another choice, to be another person – a person who had made no decisions, and therefore, no mistakes nor regrets. The slate was clean to begin again and become … _anything._

_Writer. Traveler. Speaker. Lover. Genius._

A woman whose father adored, rather than ignored her; whose mother noticed the lonely little girl whom she didn't have time for.

He was potential. Unrealised and untainted. A pure and unopened casket of treasures I could plunge my hands into and let overflow and cascade through my opened fingers. I wouldn't need to choose the cherry from the cake, since there was a bowl of crimson, ripe and shiny cherries I could eat, until my lips and fingers were stained with their juice.

Anything is possible.

Time is ticking.

_Life is short_.

I stepped over the precipice since he made it seem so possible and attainable; why wouldn't anyone do it?

I don't think I believe in hypnosis or auto-suggestive techniques. The heart wants what it wants, and no drug, I am positive, was used on me. The spark was there, within, and all I did was to find the oxygen to make it grow and flame.

I reached for the fire Prometheus brought, but it burnt me, and for a while, my heart was shriveled and blackened in blame.

I have wallowed in my greed and impetuosity for over twenty five years, and I think, it is now time to stop.

I have suffered for my decision, and made my loved ones suffer too. Make no mistake, they have always been beloved of me, and always will. My unique husband is no tinder box, but he has given me the space and love to let my fire grow without any hint of stifle. He has given me the rare and genuine gift of forgiveness which is so frequently doled out, but rarely believed in. I could not imagine my life without him.

My Mycroft has forgiven me. He has never been a one to apportion blame and seethe in resentment. He is pragmatic, Machiavellian, and utterly and completely, _the survivor_. He has never broached wallowing in self-pity, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for that. When he (very occasionally) allows me to show my love for him, it feels a rare and fortuitous privilege, like finding a four leaf clover or spotting a rainbow after a storm.

My little Sherlock has forgiven me too. I type these words with happy, happy tears in my eyes, since he was the one I worried for the most. I felt my behaviour had sucked the innocence of childhood from him and given him a loose and unsteady platform to base his growing up upon. Emotionally adrift and desirous of placing the universe into strict and regimented order. Logic. Observe, assimilate, deduce, explain. Repeat and repeat into infinity until everything can be explained and everything understood.

Except, it can`t be, and it won`t be.

But, with Sherlock, a miracle _did_ actually happen. Some very special people found him and understood him, and saved his life.

Dramatic? I don't think so. A man can look and act like he is waving at the masses, whilst all the time, he is drowning, without even realising.

So, John, Molly, lovely little Benedict, and all you Baker Street folks, you have a very special place in my heart. I cannot expect you to really understand the actions of a lost woman, over a quarter of a century ago, but I hope this letter goes some way to an explanation. It has certainly helped me.

And, what of my little Sarah, or Seiga, as she is now known?

I know she has some of her brothers` character traits, and I know she has dealt with so much in her short lifetime. She has had to make choices no person should have had to make; not allowed herself to indulge in the softer emotions that could save her. Sherlock has told me of their encounter, and I am filled with hope, however, that she has a kindness and gentleness of spirit which will be her saviour, if she allows them to be.

It is not her birthright to follow her father into his murky world of death and destruction. She can still choose the path of the angels.

If she wants to.

And I know there are many people here now, who would be more than willing to help her.

For, I am one of them.

All my love,

Miriam x

**The End**

* * *

**Arcoiris: loved the Star Wars analogy! :) I do like to throw in a bit of Sherlolly - even Sherlock isn't immune - he`s a brilliant man, but he`s still a MAN! lol. Sorry, but Miriam had to find her own way to forgive herself, and I think she has, now there are no more secrets. If/when Seiga returns, she`ll most likely get a chance to make things even better with `the Other One`. I think both Sherlock and Mycroft have a bit of the self-destruct `let`s see what happens if ...` aspect to their characters - where would they get this from if not Miriam? I happen to think Daddy Holmes is a Saint in human form.**

**A big thank you to everyone who read/reviewed and generally supported this story. Your words have made it that much better. Until the next time!**

**Emma x**


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